


The Fractured Fairy Tale

by athina39 (setosdarkness)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Conspiracy Theories, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Twisted Fairy Tales, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/setosdarkness/pseuds/athina39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All they ever wanted was to keep on dreaming.</p><p>[the one where the Earth itself is divided into three domains:</p><p>1. the kingdom of magic - Wonderland<br/>2. the kingdom of darkness - Underworld<br/>3. the kingdom of nothing - the world of powerless humans]</p><p>While there's been a non-aggression pact keeping the balance, certain beings cross the line between the three worlds and start stirring up chaos that threatens to spark a deadly inter-domain war...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. table of contents

••• ••• ••• Main Arc I  
  
•••Snow White  
fantasy the first: Snow White and her true love's kiss;  
reality the first: The Kingdom of Snow and the rotten apple;  
story the first: the courtroom of chaos;  
  
•••Cinderella  
fantasy the second: Cinderella and her glass slipper;  
reality the second: The Gates of Darkness and the sterling moonlight case;  
story the second: the masquerade of kaleidoscopes;  
  
•••Little Mermaid  
fantasy the third: Arielle and her love worth everything;  
reality the third: The Realm of Above and the equivalent exchange;  
story the third: the balance of power;  
  
•••Beauty and the Beast  
fantasy the fourth: Belle and her beautiful life;  
reality the fourth: The Realm of Below and the Faustian contract;  
story the fourth: the house of cards;  
  
•••Sleeping Beauty  
fantasy the fifth: Lily and her dream castle;  
reality the fifth: The Valley of Death and the improbable miracles;  
story the fifth: the throne of scythes;  
  
•••Rapunzel  
fantasy the sixth: Rapunzel and her golden hair;  
reality the sixth: The Tower of Heaven and the impossible prayers;  
story the sixth: the conglomerate of hells;

 

* * *

 

••• ••• ••• Extra Arcs  
•••Princess and the Pea  
extra question arc the first: The Princess and the Pea and the rise to power;  
extra answer arc the first: The Prince and the Demon and the bond of poison;  
extra file the first: hell's gate;  
  
•••Rumpelstiltskin  
extra question arc the second: Rumpelstiltskin and the wizard's trick;  
extra answer arc the second: The Alchemist and the philosopher's stone;  
extra file the second: fool's gold;  
  
•••Frog Prince  
extra question arc the third: The Frog Prince and the requiem to innocence;  
extra answer arc the third: The Queen of Hearts and the prelude to tragedy;  
extra file the third: killer's ascension;  
  
•••Little Red Riding Hood  
extra question arc the fourth: Little Red Riding Hood and the crimson cloak;  
extra answer arc the fourth: Helpless Ashen Human Beings and the gray sword;  
extra file the fourth: children's darkness;  
  


* * *

  
••• ••• ••• Interlude Arcs  
event 001: The Assassin, The Target and the garden of sinners;     [Aki Sakura x Claude Cross]  
event 002: The Tormentor, The Target and the cycle of hate;     [Ash Vlastvier x Oliver Payne]  
event 003: The Alchemist, The Target and the mountain of gold;    [Sebastian Torres x Vladimir Snow]  
event 004:   
  
event 005:   
event 006:   
event 007:   
event 008:   
event 009: The Detective, The Criminal and the turn of fate;        [The Great Detective x Timothy Light]  
event 010: The Heaven, The Ground and the distance of kings;    [Michelangelo Thomasburg x Thomas Smithson]  
  
  


* * *

  
  
••• ••• ••• Extra Backstory Arcs  
snippet 001: the man without a name and the ruined country's catharsis;            [Jack the Ripper / CHAOS]  
snippet 002: the woman without a conclusion and the looking glass' kaleidoscope;        [Alice Liddell / Alice in Wonderland]  
snippet 003: the king without a choice and the doomed royalty's judgment;        [King of Hearts]  
snippet 004: the lover without a future and the depleted life's countdown;            [Thomas Smithson]


	2. fantasy the first: Snow White and her true love's kiss;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (chapter is wip)

•••

  
**fractured fairy tale**   
**(—"once upon a time"—)**   
  
_fantasy the first: Snow White and her true love's kiss;_

  
  
•••  
  
Once upon a time—  
  
There was a small, but prosperous kingdom—ruled with love and affection, built with wealth and grace—that had three main members. There was a King—a noble husband devoted to being the sturdy pillar that supported not only the family, but also the entire estate listed under his name. There was a Queen—a beautiful wife that brightly outshone all the wonders of the world with her extravagance and brilliance. And then there was the Princess: with hair as black as ebony, with lips as red as roses, with skin as white as snow.  
  
But of course, good things do not last forever on these types of tales.  
  
On a certain day, sixteen years after the King and the Queen had been blessed with a daughter as beautiful and as perfect as Snow White, the King was defeated by a certain sickness. The sickness was relentless in crippling the ruler and owner of their little kingdom, to the point that he couldn't even rise up from his bed without at least two aides helping him. This was barely enough to rattle the foundation of a strong albeit small kingdom, for there remained two stars yet.  
  
Despite not being the wealthiest asset of the small kingdom, the Queen had vast connections that made good use of her beauty: with elite clothing lines like Valentine, flamingo and [i] all lined up to get her as their model and the face of their commercial campaigns. The Queen's efforts to shine even more dazzlingly than ever paid off, as it conveniently kept their lives as aristocratic nobility afloat.  
  
Nevertheless, the small kingdom didn't bloom as brilliantly as it did before, especially since the Queen exhausted most of her time on runways and photoshoots and filming of various television shows instead of staying at home to care for her sick husband or to bond with her teenage daughter.  
  
The Princess endured the loneliness of having no parents around for most of her days, since she burdened herself with her books and her garden that she tended to faithfully.  
  
It could have continued on for much longer, the fragile balance that kept the family existing with an untarnished name.  
  
But time wasn't feeling very generous regarding the stars that just wanted to keep on shining brightly.  
  
It started off gradually, the change that shifted and shivered within the small kingdom's walls, but then it gained momentum steadily, exponentially snowballing into a spark of tragic fate. It began with one offhand comment from a photographer for a magazine cover. And then one of the stylists started hinting about some circumstances that could maybe change things, shake things up a little bit. One of the talk show hosts not-so-subtly asked her while the cameras are still rolling, about the possibility of bringing in her beautiful, graceful, wonderful daughter to her work.   
  
It could be considered as something insanely foolish. There's no reason for the sudden burst of anxiety that filled up the Queen's heart then, just as there's no explanation for flare of anger that spreads to her entire body as she trembles in barely-controlled fury. Obviously, the Queen was older than her child, and youth have all the advantages of possessing a naturally cheerful disposition and an effortless charming beauty.  
  
And because there was barely anything creative or ordinary when it came to the entertainment business nowadays, the media soon clamored for more tidbits about the Princess to be released, just as advertising and modeling agencies competed against each other in a race to beckon the Snow White princess into a contract with their respective companies. It all started with that one offhand comment and now, the Queen and Princess of the Kingdom of Snow have become fixtures in the headlines of entertainment newsletters and websites, with speculation running rampant regarding their family's circumstances.


	3. reality the first: The Kingdom of Snow and the rotten apple;

•••

  
  
**fractured fairy tale**   
**(—"once upon a time"—)**   
  
_reality the first: The Kingdom of Snow and the rotten apple;_

  
  
•••  
  
Year 3671, October 4—  
  
"Argh, this isn't working…" Vladimir Snow furiously crosses out two paragraphs' worth of handwritten words, the red ink of his correction pen an angry red snarl against the dull black of his own thoughts and narration made into physical, tangible form. While there's no such thing as a deadline for his much-awaited manuscript, it's already been three years since he has last managed to churn out a novel under his own name and he's becoming agonizingly stressed from his own lack of output. "You know what, just screw this… I'll start over…"  
  
With those words, he dooms the crinkled paper into its painful demise: filled with red scratches, torn from the writing notebook, crumpled into a messy ball, thrown into a wastebasket already overflowing with garbage and paper and lost words.  
  
"FATHER!" comes the insistent knocking from his teenage daughter who did nothing but stay inside the mansion for days. He isn't exactly sure if his daughter's actions are really because of whatever garbage has been printed on that offensively bright and gaudy crappy magazine. He can sort of vaguely remember something like an absurd suggestion on how to stay thin and pale. It's very possible that because of that recommendation, his daughter will continue to embark on her journey to become a useless adult who just stays at home and uses up so much money because she'd prefer to do her shopping online, with extra charges for express delivery.  
  
"Mr. Snow!" comes the less loud, but equally insistent knocking from his secretary who consistently failed at doing her job at coordinating his appointments and contacts. He isn't exactly sure if she's had any other successes since she was hired aside from managing to coordinate the color of her socks to her brassiere's design. It's becoming more apparent to him that it's going to be more tolerable if he just fired her, since having no secretaries to boss around is bound to be better than having one that's a total idiot anyway.  
  
"Master Snow," comes the low growl from the bodyguard hired by his wife. He isn't exactly sure—and he doesn't particularly want to know anyway—what his wife's brain matter made of if she can't notice the perverse way said bodyguard watches her. But then again, she's probably the perfect match for a bodyguard who seems to think that he's doing a great job in masking his livid jealousy. They're both idiots—they deserve each other.  
  
With people like these surrounding him, it's no wonder he can't get anything done. Managing the finances and stocks isn't particularly difficult, but it isn't easy, not by a long shot. The wealth he inherited from his family and his family's ancestors is enough to last him and his family several times over though, so there's nothing to worry about that, even if they lose half of their assets through some stupidity or some blunder with the stock market manipulation. He isn't concerned about accomplishing his tasks with his company.   
  
What he's concerned about is his unwritten novel that's stubbornly resisting to be written. He has half-formed ideas swirling around in his mind, but before he can put them into paper (or sometimes, after he penned them down) the ideas melt like overheated shadows collapsing into the ground and seeping into the micro-cracks underneath. There's just so much noise and commotion surrounding him that he can't concentrate in remembering each fragment of phrases or sentences. He fumbles around like a blind fool and there's no laser surgery, seeing dog or clutch that could help him grasp and see what the idea is really about.  
  
There's nothing he can do to curb his family members' propensity for causing him undue annoyance, but there's something he can arrange so that he'll be left to his own devices, somewhere quiet and peaceful.   
  
He presses a button on his conference phone so that he'll be routed directly to his secretary… whose name he seems to have forgotten about already. It doesn't matter at all since he's going to fire her within the next hour anyway.  
  
"Mister Snow!" Too energetic and too chirpy, the voice of his secretary comes through loud and clear. "What can I—?"  
  
"Call the doctor," he curtly informs his secretary, cutting off her words, "and see to it that he arrives here within the next two hours."  
  
A gasp, followed by a squeaked-out affirmation, serves as his reply. He presses the button on his conference phone once more, disconnecting the line. Sighing, he places his hand on the bridge of his nose, feeling an upcoming headache building there. He makes his way to the windowsill outlining his wide, bulletproof glass window; there are neat little rows of tiny flowerpots, somehow endearing him to his wife, to his child, to his secretary, because surely, someone who takes great care of such huge amount of flowers is bound to be someone who's at least a little kind.  
  
They couldn't be more wrong.  
  
That's possibly why he can't see them as anything more than mere annoyances in his life. Maybe as material for his inspiration for his next novel, maybe not even that.  
  
He runs his hand over the clay pots, a tingling feeling at his fingertips. The flowers are at different stages of bloom—he didn't really bother about the differences of annuals, biennials and perennials when he picked them to be shipped to his house. After all, the flowers themselves aren't the reason for these pieces of horticultural influence taking up necessary space in his office.  
  
… A short while later, there's one flowerpot less, skewing the perfect rows slightly—but it doesn't matter, because his pocket is more than slightly heavier with gold coins that weren't there before.  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, October 18—  
  
It's been two weeks now.   
  
She still can't help but feel worry and anxiety gnaw at her insides each time she leaves their home, but there's nothing for it. She can't stay cooped up inside when she needs to make a living to support their family. It's a bit of a stretch to think about their family's wealth reserves going bankrupt, but she needs to maintain the appearance of their family being strong enough against all problems. The outside world is surprisingly cutthroat about stuff like these; if she missed even one bit of scheduled recording or whatnot, they're bound to kick up a storm of gossip and she can't have that. She doesn't really care about what others think, but she isn't living for just herself. She's also here for Vladimir and for Bianca.  
  
Antoinette Snow endures the focused lighting that feels too hot against her face slathered with heavy make-up—even if that unpleasant feeling is only bound to grow worse once that host starts opening her mouth and begins the talk show segment in earnest. She's been in this industry—in this realm—for years so she isn't worried at the very least about blurting out the wrong thing about the product she's contracted to do the campaigning for, nor is she troubled by the rumors about the slowed production of the drama she's starring in. She doesn't have the gory details yet, but she's already aware about some gossip flying around her main sponsor, Crimson Valentine and his fashion line. She can answer anything regarding her career and everything else chained to it.  
  
"—and her drama, 'dreamscape' is slated to be renewed for a fourth season!" Antoinette snaps into awareness as she hears the upbeat tone of… Natasha (?) speaking to the studio audience about the accomplishments that she's also aware of. She maintains the demure, graceful smile on her face, betraying none of her discomfort both at being far away from her family and from being inside a set that's just a couple of degrees short of an incinerator.  
  
"I'd like to take this chance to thank all of the viewers because it's because of them that this success is possible," Antoinette picks up the conversation thread after two seconds' pause, her smile widening to deepen the dimples on her right cheek, "and of course, thank you for inviting me today, Natasha."  
  
"The pleasure is all ours!" Natasha and her pleasantries fill the air for the next couple of minutes; Antoinette makes sure that her eyes don't droop or glaze with inattentiveness, because the camera is unforgiving about such human moments. Antoinette shifts imperceptibly on her seat, moving with the motion camera so that her right side is closer to the foreground, helping her highlight her dimple and aiding her conceal the beginnings of a pimple near her left ear. Despite humanity's success with advancing their understanding of technology, there are still a couple of on-site crew directing some of the cameras that don't follow her movements.  
  
"As they say, you've definitely got the wonders of genes and heredity under control!" Natasha's voice is filled to the brim with friendliness and enthusiasm, but Antoinette has been under the spotlight for years and she knows how to spot a shift in the atmosphere. This is just the beginning of this interrogation, she knows. Natasha is all smiles right now, but there's no doubt that the topic will soon shift to unpleasant things that she doesn't care for. Why can't they just ask about Valentine's ongoing rivalry with the flamingo line? Why can't they just ask about the mini-confrontation between her and Sasha Torres during the last campaign? Why can't they just ask her about spoilers and news straight from the set of 'dreamscape'?  
  
"I wouldn't say I made them under my control," Antoinette hedges with the politeness of one so fake under the glittering lights, "but I would say that it makes me happy to learn of my family's successes."  
  
Bianca isn't—and will never be—a celebrity, but with the whispers of nasty happenings within the United Nations and the marked changes with the society, it seems that the entertainment industry sure is desperate to fill the airwaves with news that aren't relevant in the slightest. It's not like she can throw a tantrum and protest getting questioned, no matter how subtly, about her family though. Not only will her manager kill her, but Crimson will definitely join the lynching mob if that happened. Maintaining status quo is what this is about and she needs to do that. She rubs the inside of her wrist with her right hand, a meaningless, yet oddly comforting gesture hidden from the cameras.  
  
"We have no doubt that Bianca will make you proud if she decides to pursue a modeling and acting career," Natasha's grin is still stuffed with excitement, but the edges are already there, poking out like razor-sharp canines belonging to a rabid dog, "or maybe even include a singing career to go one step ahead of you?"  
  
Warmth drips all over, but the tone is provocative, seductively daring her to react, to take offense, to be provoked. Natasha is taunting her to show all her cards, to show the audience just how much she understands the imaginary fine print subtitles running underneath the conversation.   
  
"Bianca hasn't shown any interest in showbiz, I'm afraid," and she will never be dragged into this business, not ever.  
  
"That is indeed a shame," there's a brief booing and sighing from the disappointed studio audience, and Natasha's skills extend to the authenticity of the emotion she's portraying, "I am actually privy to the information that there's more than just a decent handful of people who think that Bianca's beauty is on par with Miss Helena Troy's!"  
  
…of course they will bring up Helena. Receiving the praise and recognition as the 'Most Beautiful Woman in the World' seems to only serve the purpose as a benchmark or a guideline for women everywhere—now even her daughter's reputation is going to fall to the trap of being compared to Helena. She remains confident that she can answer any and all questions and subsequent prodding about her career, but now they're starting to drag other people's names into this conversation. It wouldn't be too bad if it's just Crimson or maybe the production staff or even her coworkers; the name they're citing belongs not only to the unanimously acknowledged 'most beautiful woman', but also to the owner of the 'flamingo' fashion line, her sponsor's main rival. Competitiveness doesn't bring her any thrill whatsoever but the onlookers apparently enjoy this type of conflict. She steels her smile against the extravagant lighting and against the predatory smirk that she can see dancing around Natasha's face.   
  
"Helena's beauty is on an entirely different level," she acknowledges with all the air of an admiring underclassman, primarily because it's worthwhile to project an image of camaraderie between what people construe as rivals, but also because she feels a burning need to divert the conversation away from her daughter, "but I'd like to thank those who feel that way about my daughter's looks. I'm sure she appreciates it as well."  
  
"Speaking of physical appearances," Natasha segues into her main point without much concern about the brief flash of Antoinette's stricken look, "Bianca doesn't seem to look much like you or Mister Vladimir, does she?"  
  
With the way that topic runs rampant nowadays, Antoinette is pressed to consider that their family's reputation hasn't been as unyielding as she expected. It seems that it's been a topic of intrigue way before, but with the obvious split in their family and the clear disappearance of her husband in the most recent Economic Summit, the controversies are now storming the weak defenses of their family's name.  
  
"She got her pale complexion from Vladimir," she replies, admirably not through gritted teeth, but through a forced smile, "and her hair color as well."  
  
"Oh, my goodness, that was my bad!" Natasha giggles like an unrepentant schoolgirl that's been caught vandalizing the desks with amalgamations of her own name and her crush's. "I meant that she doesn't look much like you, does she?"  
  
Antoinette longs to swallow her words back, because she shouldn't have replied anything to the previous comment, just as she shouldn't have accepted an interview for this program. Her manager has been pestering her about being sweet and receptive to this particular program because it's certainly the top-rated entertainment news show in recent times. She should have resisted more about the idea, just as she should have tried to learn more about Natasha and her reputation for getting solid interviews that are on par with chilling psychological interviews with death-row inmates.  
  
The studio audience is quiet, but it's the type of silence associated with muted shock rather than a contrived stillness. It seems that even they are speechless in the face of Natasha's matter-of-fact words. The cameras are still rolling, seconds ticking impossibly slow when confronted with such unpleasant revelations.  
  
"I guess that's part of life," she thinks that she has read somewhere that there's no guarantee that one's offspring will retain a physical feature from one parent, but she's out of her depth when it comes to complicated things like biology, so she doesn't make any comments toward that, "it's good for Bianca though. I've always told Vladimir that he's too handsome to be stuck with politics and business, but he never does heed my suggestions to lend his face to the modeling industry…"  
  
With a slightly higher pitch to compensate for the growling anger that's threatening to spill out of her, she continues in rapid-fire speed to talk about her husband's good looks that just make him all the more appealing and otherworldly.  
  
There's a sliver of grudging respect in Natasha's eyes as she attentively listens to her guest's desperate diversion; Antoinette is already dreading the talk backstage with her manager about managing these rumors, but this will do for now. The audience chuckles at the appropriate intervals, in-between some 'secret' tales about how her home life is.   
  
"Vladimir is actually such a sport," Antoinette's mouth is working on autopilot, tidbits of stories flowing over her lips even if she herself isn't even filtering it for any grain of truth, "during reruns, he's even the one more excited to watch my romantic scenes with Albert, imagine that!"  
  
Natasha looks entertained by her attempts to steer the conversation away from the minefields. "Oh, yes! Glad that you mentioned Albert – is it really true that there's going to be a grand kissing scene—"  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, October 20—  
  
"My Queen—" Raymond Weinstein calls out to the Queen of this kingdom, to the Queen of his entire world, knocking three more times against the heavy wooden door for good measure. "My Queen—"  
  
There are some sounds of shuffling, followed by the telltale noise of footsteps being swallowed by plush carpeting. He waits patiently outside the door that serves as the only obstacle between him and the sight of his Queen and her bedchambers. Truthfully, it's been quite some time since he first gained possession of the master key that unlocks not only this door, but even if he has the means to negate the use of this door, he can't do something disrespectful towards the Queen. So he waits, patiently, until the footsteps stop at the other side of the rectangular slab of mahogany wood. The sound of the doorknob twisting almost seems like a tempting serenade.  
  
"…you shouldn't call me that, Raymond." That's her standard greeting and even if he keeps on defying that softly-spoken request, he nods in deference. "…what is it?"  
  
He thinks about how uncooperative the little bratty princess is and how she insists on endangering her fragile health by staying too late outside in the rose gardens. He doesn't blurt out the first things that come to his mind because this requires delicacy. He can't just complain heedlessly to his Queen, especially since this is regarding her daughter. Insufferable she may be, she's still much more closely linked to his Queen compared to him.  
  
"I have urgent news," he intones with the gravest tone he can muster, speaking very slowly and very not-urgently, "regarding the princess."  
  
Without the constant make-up and fancy hair extensions that her work insists on bestowing upon her perfection, his Queen is endlessly beautiful. Even with uncombed hair and bangs falling haphazardly in front of her eyes, his Queen remains perfect. Her honeyed chocolate-colored eyes widen in alarm at his words though, the sleepiness lurking at the edges of her eyelashes going away without even so much as a blink. He savors the moment for a couple more seconds, because his Queen is so used to maintaining the same facial expression day in and day out – it's a treat to see her self-control crumble like dust because of his words, of his presence, of him.  
  
"What happened to Bianca?!" And forget about cherishing the changes in her facial expression – this one is even better: her cotton-soft hands are grasping him by his elbows, her perfumed body standing so close. There's nobody else stationed in this wing because the rest of the household is tiptoeing fifty meters away from the Master's barred-from-entry room. There's nobody else around who could possibly witness this scenario, so it's incredibly tempting to just maneuver their bodies just a little so that he's lovingly pressing his Queen down on her luxurious, petal-soft canopy bed, instead of standing just impossibly close like this. "Raymond! What happened to her?!"  
  
The princess is dead.  
  
The words are heavy on his tongue, but he needs to say those words so that his Queen can finally be freed from the chains binding her to her sorrow and to this sorry excuse of a marriage. His Queen doesn't speak to him about such personal matters and such emotional concerns – which suits him fine, because what kind of queen seeks the help of a commoner regarding such trivial things – but love is a funny, powerful thing. Even without the Queen's express words, he understands her feelings about the gossips targeting the mystery of Bianca Snow and her complete detachment to social gatherings and the outside world.  
  
"…my Queen," he closes his eyes briefly before opening them dramatically after a few more heartbeats; his Queen's grip is cold and clammy but still so-very-soft on his arms, "the princess is dead."  
  
He feels the powerful tremor that rattles his Queen's lithe frame, just as he breathes in the anguished sob that snowballs into wordless but pained wails. His Queen's hold on his elbows loosens the tiniest bit but her hands don't fall away completely, even as she sinks down to her knees, placing her head at an interesting angle in front of his hips. Her eyes are downcast though, unseeing gaze focused on the carpeted floors.  
  
There's a certain pulse of pleasure that racks through him as he watches his Queen's torment at losing her child. That brat doesn't deserve this much sorrow, because she's naïve, stupid and simply keeps on attracting problem after problem that causes grief to his Queen's heart.  
  
He slowly brings out the suicide letter that he took weeks to perfect, filled with words that haven't exactly left that brat's lips. Honestly, there's no actual suicide – or at least, none yet, but he's hoping rather keenly for nature to run its course – but the letter will make the separation between mother and child permanent. Technically, he is lying to his Queen, because her daughter isn't dead – again, not yet at least – but it's better for everyone else if she really is, anyway. Without that brat's presence, his Queen could finally inspect the sorry state of her marriage without any sort of bias; without that brat's presence, his Queen could finally return to her previous routine without any gossipmongers harassing her about the truth regarding the faithfulness that governed the Snow Kingdom for years.  
  
"How could this happen—oh god why?"  
  
He isn't god so he doesn't answer the heartbreaking question, but he does sink to his knees as well so he can enclose his Queen in his imperfect, but masculine arms. His Queen doesn't protest or pull away like she did before when he tried this, which just cements his belief in the justice of this move. Without that brat, his Queen is really much more loveable and susceptible to his unbridled emotions.   
  
There are tears streaking down his Queen's face – and he's half-tempted to brush them away with his unworthy lips – so he tries to compromise with himself by simply going for a tender stroke of his fingers against powder-soft cheeks. Once more, he's half-tempted to bring his fingertips to his own mouth, because he's quite certain that his Queen's tears will taste like honey, instead of something salty. His Queen continues trembling like a fragile child and he feels a surge of benevolence so he doesn't delay the unfolding of the faked letter so that his Queen can quickly read the words that will completely sever her ties to her wayward child.  
  
"She's… she's…"  
  
Admirably – or rather, expectedly – his Queen isn't distracted by her own grief, so she easily deciphers the meaning behind the forged words and engineered goodbyes. He's prepared for the questions and for more proof – this plan has been spinning underneath the foundations of this kingdom for so long, after all. He's grateful for the ease that he finds the necessary channels needed to establish fake corpses; he's just as thankful that he judged the little brat's stupidity just right.  
  
After this fantastic display of despair, his Queen will undoubtedly pick up the broken pieces of her glass heart with her bare hands – she will scour the entire kingdom for reasons and for facts and he is prepared for that. He is prepared to comfort her just like this – and hopefully soon, much closer than this – once she returns from unsuccessfully requesting audience from her own husband who is selfishly locking himself up in another wing of the house because of some supposed sickness. He is prepared to make her forget every single thing in this world and build her memory from scratch. He is prepared to be her knight in shining armor.  
  
"Why is this happening?" His Queen possesses a voice so clear and so pleasing that it doesn't even matter that she's clueless and hopeless and helpless right now – her words ring like perfect notes dropping from a golden harp. His Queen is perfect – but this slide to human weakness is gratifying, if only because his Queen returns to clinging uncertainly to his arms.  
  
He arranges his limbs so that he encloses the entirety of his Queen's shaking form, thanking his plans and his luck for this development.  
  
This is definitely for the best.  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, November 9—  
  
Industrial-size headphones rest on her ears, with the volume of the video clip set to the maximum level, but she doesn't particularly understand the words tumbling in between the headphones and her ears. When she ventured to this strange place weeks ago, she didn't think she'd be able to endure the strict level of silence needed in this… library (?) – oh yes, this is called a library – just as she didn't expect she possesses the amount of patience required to sit still for hours. It seems that going out of her castle is doing wonders to her skills and to her self-discovery – she's now doing things that she didn't even know possible beforehand.  
  
Nevertheless, learning about the ways of the commoner's world outside of her castle walls is getting stale, boring. The words from the documentary she rented don't make sense to her, so she has started to stop listening or caring. Quite honestly her fascination with the video clips summarizing the happenings about the world – news clips and documentary movies – has long disappeared. There's only one reason why she persists on staying in this library smelling like something unpleasant stuck at the bottom of her shoe closet.  
  
The rented clip continues on playing, the progress bar steadily marching to the right, but her eyes are transfixed on the solitary figure five tables across from her. She doesn't know his name or his history – but she does know is his face, sculpted by the most talented of all sculptors, brought into life by the most wonderful painter by using the most vibrant colors. She feels a strange sort of fluttering and heat on her heart whenever she glances at him – a welcome change from the painful twitches she felt when her bodyguard informed her weeks ago about the truth behind her mother's justified jealousy and resentment.  
  
She rolls her eyes when she distinguishes the words 'supernatural forces' and 'vampires' and 'mermaids' and 'witches' from the clip. It's stupid really – this is reality! It's foolish too, because why should one think of the possibility of supernatural, unexplainable happenings anyway? Additionally, why should one waste time fantasizing about pale and charismatic vampires who are only available during nighttime when there is perfection personified lurking in nondescript libraries, waiting to be stared at?  
  
There isn't much people inside this library no matter what time of day it is – making her chances of watching her beloved without any obstructions that much higher. There's the head librarian on the main table near the mold-smelling entrance; there's the unfortunate part-timer shuttling back and forth between the loan-and-return work desk and the gigantic shelves scattered all over; there's the occasional visitor that probably enters the library in hopes of finding interesting and getting sorely disappointed. As for her, she's been returning to this dilapidated building despite common sense dictating otherwise, despite her delicacies screaming otherwise.   
  
The background noise suddenly disappears as her rented clip finally ends. She gazes at the name of the clip's director and vows to never again rent anything made by him. There's only so much she could take after all. The closest that she'll allow herself to think of the supernatural is regarding her beloved's otherworldly beauty and that's all. Conspiracy theories and masquerade hypothesis – ha! – what a joke.   
  
She makes a motion to stand so she can replace the video clip she rented with something else – it's good that the part-timer is there on the loan desk, it will spare her extra minutes of waiting around in the dust-filled area.  
  
…Wait.  
  
Apparently, there's one more regular visitor in this dirty library – and he's seated, always, to the far right table, on the same lane as her. She barely pays any attention to him, but it seems that he's always been here ever since she visited.  
  
…Oh.  
  
Is it possible that he's here for the same – well, maybe not exactly the same – reason as her?  
  
Self-consciously, she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her earlobe, coquettishly smoothing the imaginary wrinkles on her dress. It is possible – very much so. While she has honestly been unable to continue her complete cosmetic regimen ever since she fled from her castle – and of course, the servants she managed to acquire are useless regarding that – never for one moment has she doubted that she remains the fairest of them all. Her beloved is just a wonderful, challenging exception to her radius of charm – but it isn't of any surprise to find that everybody else is quite smitten with her. The possibility exceeds one thousand percent – her beauty on par with goddesses is the reason why her queenly mother despises and resents and envies her anyway.  
  
So the other person is definitely here – despite the lack of items of interest – because this is his only connection, only chance, to her.  
  
…Oh my.  
  
Isn't this just grand?  
  
While this isn't halfway enough to divert her affections for her Prince Charming – and while this isn't great news for someone like her who's running away from her home and her family's broad connections – it is still somewhat wonderful news. There's a warm feeling on her chest and it almost feels too hot – this must be what they call satisfaction. Yes, she's satisfied that her beauty and charm are still as powerful as ever. It's reassuring to learn that despite the number of changes plaguing her life, there are still things that remain the same.  
  
She makes her way to the loan desk, her footsteps light as air. She chances another glance at her admirer and notices the olive-green eyes not quite hidden by the long, coffee-colored bangs. Her admirer's color scheme isn't bad – the lightly tanned skin makes the other's eyes stand out even more. Great taste in clothes too, something that she can definitely appreciate.   
  
In her opinion, people take their appearances for granted way too often for her liking; it doesn't make sense for any person to go out of their homes without any semblance of effort exerted on looking their very best. She herself can't stand the idea of being seen by others without makeup on her face; she doesn't understand how others could live with themselves for foregoing any cosmetic regimen.   
  
She schools her face to wipe out any sort of displeasure from her train of thought; she even grants the poor part-timer a beautiful smile. The part-timer's freckled face flushes pink from the attention. She smiles again and sends him scurrying off to fulfill her request for another set of documentaries – any set of documentaries on any topics, as long as they're not made by Marjorie Wordsworth.  
  
Her phone buzzes inside her pocket and she ignores the constant whirring and shaking. While she doesn't particularly place any sort of respect towards the head librarian or the library's quaint little rules, she doesn't enjoy the thought of being viewed as a delinquent rule-breaker by her beloved. …True, he isn't giving her any kind of special attention now – his eyes are glued to the books in front of him… - but she isn't the type to take any chances regarding that. While she can't really announce to this small-town library that she's a princess of the best kind, what she can do is instead enforce a good, perfect impression so that they'll easily see her princess qualities.  
  
Her phone buzzes for the umpteenth time and she inwardly rants at her servants. They are the only ones who know of her newly purchased number and they are the only ones insistent enough on trying to reach her at this time of the day. Like the ancient fairy tale about the princess Snow White, she has also managed to acquire seven commoner underlings who are too awestruck by her beauty to think of disobeying her whims and requests. Her own set of seven dwarves are common, working, middle-class bachelors who are only too happy to be of assistance to her cause. They've provided her lodging and food and everything else she needs – well, they've been failures regarding acquiring the makeup she's accustomed to, but she could let that slide for now – and they've expressed their desire to continue doing so until she tires of them.  
  
Honestly, she is already bored and tired of their antics but there are more important things to consider aside from her dwarves' novelty. Her own survival, for example, is much more important than her selfish desire for more important things. As bored as she may be of her companions, she can't deny their usefulness. She's confident that she can acquire another set of people who will gladly treat her as their master, but she already has them, so there's not much point giving herself more challenges in life.  
  
Her phone buzzes again, tickling her hip. She bites her lip as she bravely resists the urge to just check her cellphone for whatever message or call that's waiting for her.  
  
And during her entire struggle, her Prince Charming's eyes don't stray away from his own books, not even for a second.  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, November 23—  
  
One month after the case started—yet today is the first time they've attempted to contact someone about this.  
  
How curious.  
  
How incredibly stupid is more like it.  
  
There could be a number of reasons for the ridiculous delay—he can't discount the fact that normal human beings are in love with their excuses and lies and twisted brand of shame.   
  
He looks down at his own toes and—oh. He can't do that. Because of his father's request, he's actually here, in person, in front of their client. He's wearing shoes and normal clothing. He can't see his toes this way. He wiggles them instead, the movement restricted by black cotton socks. He frowns.  
  
He looks up and witnesses his father's face contorting in an unfamiliar expression. He blinks and the short moment is enough to let him catalog the tension on the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes, along with the flat line of the aged lips.   
  
Concern. Anxiety. Nervousness.  
  
Feelings that his father never had room for.  
  
He transfers his gaze towards the other man in this room surrounded by so many flowers.  
  
Black hair, black eyes, very pale skin.   
  
Almost like him then.  
  
There are no lines of worry etched on the other's face—even if he's the one who supposedly placed the request to have his daughter's apparently suicide investigated.  
  
…almost like him then.  
  
He revises his thoughts and initial conclusions about their client.  
  
Vladimir Snow—unchallenged head of the Snow family and the only person who has complete access to the vault that contains the Snow family's rumored mountain of gold. He does not possess any particular genius or insight regarding economics and finances—resulting in a noticeable decline in the Snow family's financial records. Judging from the trashcan filled to the brim with crumpled paper and the lack of any advanced technical equipment associated with the offices of affluent economic leaders, Vladimir Snow has very little interest in technology, power and money.  
  
[It would be worthwhile to check the scribbles written on those crumpled garbage. They could be frustrated diary entries or secret correspondence. They could be a number of things, including nothing. They are worth investigating.]  
  
Most of the flowers are in bloom but there's something odd about the selection. There's no pattern to the arrangement and it almost appears like Vladimir Snow simply pointed at random pots at a flower shop instead of sparing a moment to think about his purchase. And yet the plants look excellent, as though they've been taken care of with great… care.  
  
[It would be worthwhile to cross-reference the different species of flowers here. Maybe there's some deeper meaning about the haphazard mix? It would be worthwhile to consult a horticulture specialist or maybe a florist so he could check if there's some symbolism that he's missing here.]  
  
There's a million and one rumors flying around regarding not only Vladimir Snow, but also each member of his family, and there could be some grain of truth in them.  
  
He rubs at his own sickly pale wrist, the long sleeve of his black turtleneck tickling his skin slightly.  
  
The official reason for Vladimir Snow's disappearance from the outside world and his negligence to participate in the annual Economic Summit is sickness.  
  
Aside from the unhealthy pallor, there's nothing on Vladimir Snow's appearance that hints on any sort of disease that could warrant long-term rest away from the rest of the world, away from even his own family members.  
  
[It would be worthwhile to investigate Vladimir Snow's medical records and review the statement of his doctor. There's very little chance that the doctor will reveal anything incriminating though—he's still an employee of the Snow family. Maybe there's a reason for faking an illness, maybe he's just sick of his own family, maybe it's just a contrived coincidence with all these things that are happening. It would be worth investigating.]  
  
He doesn't listen to the exact words exchanged between his father and Vladimir Snow. There's no need—everything that's happening here is recorded anyway. He continues looking around the room without moving from his seat and without craning his neck too much. Still, he hears important bits and pieces from the conversation, a mixture of things he's already been briefed about and things that are new to his repertoire of information.  
  
For example: it isn't really Vladimir Snow who's making this request. He realigns his thoughts about the man-that's-not-really-the-client, particularly since the real client is apparently his wife, Antoinette Snow. This request is for him to investigate and dig deeper about Bianca Snow's suicide and it seems that her father doesn't possess any interest about it. There's a couple of repeated iterations about the man's lack of interest about this and another set of repeats about Mrs. Snow being the one who's invested on this.  
  
[Antoinette Snow is popular enough and while she doesn't possess the complete access that her husband has towards the family's wealth, she should still have enough money to hire private investigators. But she didn't. She had to submit her request through her husband. Vladimir Snow doesn't seem like someone who would control such an aspect of his wife's life—so why the roundabout method? It would be worthwhile to investigate on Antoinette Snow's background and astonishing lack of connections.]  
  
"—she's very persistent."  
  
"I suppose she has been giving you a hard time," his father's gravelly voice sounds mostly the same, but there's an odd note of understanding there, which isn't so surprising given the estrangement in their own family, "I understand how important your writing is to you."  
  
Vladimir Snow sighs heavily and there's no trace of sickness whatsoever in his irritated expression. "It's hard to concentrate with all this commotion."  
  
A man who considers his wife's concerns about his own daughter's death an irritating commotion.  
  
How unpleasant.  
  
He looks down on the tips of shoes. Leather and shiny as though he's seeking to create a good first impression on their client. Even if Vladimir Snow is one of his father's oldest and closest colleagues, he isn't interested in growing close to the man.  
  
To his knowledge, Vladimir Snow has only managed to produce one novel in his entire writing career. The novel is a bit ordinary and he distinctly remembers chucking the book to the back of Alexander's head after giving up on page 26. That abysmal level of writing skill is apparently important enough to this man.  
  
How very strange.  
  
"We will find Bianca." His father sounds confident as ever, never mind that he won't be the one doing the legwork of this investigation. "I can promise you that."  
  
"I'm sure you can," Vladimir Snow sighs again, "and by the way, that kid's your son right?"  
  
He freezes a little at being called a 'kid', more so than the surprise of their not-really-client noticing his presence. Bristling inside, he bites the inside of his cheek so that he won't let out a retort. His father did request for him to keep his mouth shut for the duration of this visit, after all.  
  
"He is," and there's an unusual note of pride there, "Seth is building a reputation for being a very good detective."  
  
"Competing with the Great Detective?"  
  
"There is no point competing with a retired… man."  
  
"…You know what I mean."  
  
He runs his hands over the black fabric covering his thighs. The material is itchy and he makes a note to never wear this type of pants ever again. He attempts to tune out the conversation once more, because it's filled with things from his father's past that he doesn't particular care to unravel. He will replay this conversation twice once they return to their base, because there's an underlying hint of a second dialog running underneath the casual talk.   
  
Spotting a shadow on the couch he's perched at, he wrinkles his nose in disgust, inching away from the dirt. He makes another note to make his upcoming shower twice as long and even that isn't ample enough of a time to remove all the filth and germs from this encounter. This is why he loathes going out to meet his clients personally—too many variables, too many social conventions, too many inconveniences that hinder him from doing his job.  
  
Alexander is free today, like most other days—and even if he has some prior arrangements, he will definitely reschedule those in favor of helping him out. There's no particular reason why he should personally show himself to this client, aside from showing some sort of reassurance that he is taking this case seriously.  
  
How ridiculous.  
  
There's no such thing as a case that he doesn't take seriously.  
  
He's only here because his father is friends with this client…'s husband.  
  
He will be extremely cross if this ends up being just a lame race for some measly amount of inheritance.  
  
"These are the personal files of all inhabitants of this household," on the cleared office desk, Vladimir Snow dumps an entire stack of folders that are most likely handwritten, "and there are other, older files and blueprints inside the safe. This is the key. I don't mind if you investigate all of them, but I'd just make a request for you to arrange them back to how they were afterwards."  
  
He blinks owlishly, reading the apathy on Vladimir Snow's face. Such openness and cooperation are well-liked amongst clients. It almost appears as though Vladimir Snow has nothing to hide about his involvement in the household. He blinks once more, inclining his head thoughtfully. No, that's not right. There's no such thing as a human being without anything to hide. It's only regarding this case then that Vladimir Snow has complete innocence in.  
  
His father is glaring at him pointedly.  
  
He blinks again.  
  
Oh.  
  
"Thank you for your cooperation," he finds his voice after a moment of deliberation, his tone coarse as though he hasn't been near a drop of water in the past couple of hours, "and I will do as you say."  
  
The glare's intensity softens but doesn't go away completely. There's a smidgen of relief on Vladimir Snow's face. It's curious, how much these human beings value courtesy and fake politeness. It's even more curious, how Vladimir Snow seems to prioritize the state of the files rather than the state of his daughter's life.  
  
[It's worthwhile to investigate the genealogy then between the two. It's possible that this detachment is because of some ancient concept of arranged marriage between Vladimir and Antoinette Snow, just as it is possible that Vladimir Snow has no contributions whatsoever to Bianca Snow's DNA. It's a cheap way of explaining the inconsistencies between the parents' behaviors regarding their daughter, but it's something worth investigating. Just in case.]  
  
He scratches absentmindedly at his right kneecap. That's how it looks like to anybody else observing him at the moment, but he's actually thinking and reviewing all the little notes and observations that he has gathered about the situation and about the environment. That's also the agreed-upon sign they had established earlier today—he's sick of this place and he's itching to start the case already so he can finish it as soon as possible. There are other more important things happening in this world—and not just here too—aside from a maybe-suicidal little girl.  
  
"We will contact you once we make some progress," his father offers the point of contact, "unless you would prefer if we contact your secretary?"  
  
"I just fired my secretary and I'm not looking forward to getting a new one," Vladimir Snow shares that little tidbit of callousness, "so you can just contact me as usual."  
  
He stares at Vladimir Snow and his bottomless black eyes.  
  
Rather than the fishy disappearance of his daughter, he really seems to be the one worth investigating.  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, December 12—  
  
Without any real intention of drawing the luscious basket filled with fruits, Alexander Castle taps the fine end of his drawing pencil against the very blank canvas. Quite frankly, he isn't sure where to start the drawing process – and even more frankly, he doesn't really care about bettering himself for some get-together with the other sons and daughters of some fellow nobles. Anything that requires creativity of some sort – arts, music, literature – has always been his weak point even during his often-forgotten youth. It just makes him wonder what kind of expectations are they placing on him to expect something like improvement when it comes to the arts.   
  
"Still no progress?"  
  
He continues tapping on the blank sheet – still gloriously blank except for the negligible portion that's shaded charcoal-black because of his pencil.  
  
"You know I'm no good with this."  
  
"Humanity is all about evolution and progress." There's a certain air of confidence in those words that makes it sound as though the other is quoting from a reliable, renowned source. More than likely, the other is just pulling the words straight out of his ass. "Aren't you quite human, Alexander?"  
  
"You sound like a robot," Alexander comments lightheartedly, finally ceasing the rhythmic tapping, "or maybe even an alien."  
  
"I don't want to hear any sort of compliment from you."  
  
"No worries – that isn't a compliment."  
  
Alexander stretches his legs from the confinement of his sitting position. He closes the sketchbook with a thud of finality, focusing his entire attention on the only person who owns a key to his private room – a sort-of distinction that not even his parents possess. He spies the thumb-drive securely grasped within the other's knuckles. With a longsuffering sigh, he slides away from his very unused drawing desk and goes for the projector switch on the other end of the room. Wordlessly, the thumb-drive is deposited to his waiting palm and just as silently, he plugs it in the port. In less than a minute, the drive's only contents are displayed across the walls of the room that's now dimmed to disallow any interference from the afternoon sun.  
  
"How's the case going?"  
  
It's been a busy couple of weeks – there are far too many balls and parties for someone as disinterested as him. He usually abandons any prior arrangements as soon as Seth calls for his assistance on his cases, but Seth hasn't really outright asked him this time and his parents aren't really waiting for his acquiescence while they shuttle him off to meet a number of forgettable people. Nevertheless he isn't entirely clueless about this particular case. Seth isn't the type to keep this type of information a secret from him anyway.  
  
"I've investigated the entire household and Bianca Snow is definitely alive somewhere."  
  
He glances at the transcripts of the interviews with every single inhabitant of the Snow Estate. Completely thorough investigation as one would expect from a famous detective – there's no doubt then that the conclusion is truth.   
  
"…Somewhere?"  
  
"Unfortunately, I'm at a loss in discovering where the hell she ran away to."  
  
Alexander fights off a smile at that admission. He's slightly relieved that Seth is still able to admit certain things to him, but it's also a bit disheartening to hear those words of defeat.  
  
"I'll help you."  
  
Seth simply stares at him with those unfathomable eyes of his, black whirlpools of color luring him in and robbing him of his senses. He fights off the urge to squirm this time, uncomfortable with the blatant scrutiny. There's nothing strange with him offering to help Seth out, since he's always been the assistant following the other around – ever since before.  
  
"…Aren't you supposed to meet with some wonderful ladies tomorrow? They'll surely be awaiting your still-life masterpiece."  
  
"I'll talk to… them. They'll understand."  
  
Alexander watches those pale fingers scratch at some phantom spot on the other's collarbones.  
  
"I should brief you about this case then." Seth breaks off the steady gaze, waving one hand dismissively towards the abandoned swivel chair. "I can't allow you to take notes, as usual."  
  
"It's fine." Self-consciously, he sits back down on his chair, the wheels squeaking slightly. "I'm listening."  
  
"Vladimir Snow is the point of contact on this case. He has contacted my father about a request to investigate further into his daughter's death last October 20. It has been ruled a suicide but apparently the wife, Antoinette Snow, has reason to believe foul-play. Antoinette Snow has very little connections to investigation agencies despite her career in the entertainment industry, mostly because her status from birth has never been particularly significant. She makes the request to her husband, who in turn, contacted my father and then me."  
  
"Antoinette Snow is familiar." Famous is a more accurate term, but Alexander knows a lot of famous people and most of them aren't particularly noteworthy. He hums in appreciation as he reads over the sizable chunk of history that Seth managed to uncover. "I'd never expect her to be hiding a past like this."  
  
"There are quite a number of people with a past just like hers… they're just less successful in diverting attention away from it."  
  
"That does say something about the state of affairs in our world, huh?" Alexander muses thoughtfully, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He grabs his pencil from the desk and twirls it between his fingers – an action that he's observed on fellow colleagues whenever there's some ongoing intellectual discussion. Of course the level of their intellect is hardly on par with Seth's, but it's all fairly relative at this point.  
  
"The balance is definitely unhinged," Seth agrees noncommittally, like he doesn't really care about the extent of disruption the world is experiencing right now, "but we digress. The suicide was initially reported by one Raymond Weinstein, aide to Antoinette Snow. I'm yet to uncover the exact reasoning and sequence of events behind it, but Raymond Weinstein has certainly falsified the suicide letter, as well as acquired a fake corpse."  
  
"They've gone through quite a bit of trouble then."   
  
"Bianca Snow is alive, somewhere. Her reasons for running away have a lot of possibilities—but of course, I wouldn't rule out infectious teenage stupidity just yet."  
  
"Could she be staying at a friend's? Maybe they're having some giant slumber party marathon," Alexander considers the notes on Bianca Snow's personality taken from the household's perspective; she's a polarizing character, effectively inspiring borderline apathetic annoyance from her father, excessive devotion from her mother, overwhelming hatred from her mother's aide, and some mixed feelings of intrigue and irritation from the rest of the staff. It's almost laughable how the eyewitness accounts couldn't even agree on basic things like Bianca Snow's physical appearance. But, there is one thing that the notes converge on—the fact that Bianca Snow has never been allowed to step out of the estate's perimeters. "Or maybe she ran off gallivanting with some handsome rogue who promised her a lifetime of adventure."  
  
Shrugging, Seth walks over to the portion of the wall projecting some other details that don't really fit with the rest of the investigation. There's a comprehensive list containing different floral species and their meanings in florist-language, but underneath the series of names is an angry red note that says INCONCLUSIVE. There's also a bunch of documents on Vladimir Snow's health records—something that Alexander doesn't understand.  
  
"I know you love being thorough in your investigations, but what does Vladimir Snow's health records have to do with this?"  
  
"I found it worthwhile to investigate," Seth yanks the thumb-drive away from the port without any preamble, overriding the automatic projection system. Orange-red sunlight returns to the room, casting an eerie glow to Seth's sickly pale skin not covered by his usual loose, long-sleeved black turtleneck. "Throughout all this commotion, Vladimir Snow hasn't been showing himself not only to the Economic Summit, but also to his own family. Official reason is recuperation from some illness, but I honestly can't find anything that supports that claim—aside from the medical certificate issued by the family doctor."  
  
"Even doctors are untrustworthy these days."  
  
"I did countercheck the history with father's contacts," the flippant tone tells Alexander how little Seth values the opinion of a high-ranking official within the Health Ministry of the United Nations, "and I did take the liberty of consulting both Evangeline Marlowe and Joseph Hightower."  
  
Alexander makes a low whistle of appreciation, "So you've got word from the Health Ministry's finest and from the most popular and most expensive underground doctors."  
  
"It would seem so."  
  
"But you're not satisfied," Alexander's somber tone isn't enough to rouse Seth from his preoccupation with fiddling with the edges of his sleeves; excess activity with one's extremities are usually attributed to people with short attention spans and lackluster intellect, but with Seth it is a sign of high-level cognition.  
  
"The goal of this case is to find Bianca Snow and deliver her whereabouts to Antoinette Snow who shall be the one to coax her runaway daughter back." There's hardly any sort of frustration visible on the other's usually impassive face, but this isn't the first time stoicism has been employed to mask more volatile emotions. "I'm still short of the goal, so no, I'm not satisfied."  
  
"I'll ask around with my contacts," never mind that most of his contacts are vapid teenagers who are still shepherded by their parents' wishes, "maybe they've seen her around recently."  
  
"I think that Bianca Snow has enough common sense to avoid the popular spots for spoiled princesses, but I guess I can't rule that out either…"  
  
"Every little bit of help counts, right?" Except not really, since Seth isn't the type to accept any help if he thinks the cons outweigh the pros. "By the way, I'll need to get a more recent photo of the target. It will make it easier to ask around with that."  
  
"You're pretty determined to help me out even while lacking a vital piece of information." Seth murmurs almost amusedly, but he does obediently hand over two copies of Bianca Snow's not-so-candid picture. "The clients have requested this to be a low-key investigation, so I shouldn't need to remind you to not mass produce a 'Missing Person' notice."   
  
A couple of moments pass without any sort of reply. Alexander's gaze is focused intently on the photo, a rare sight for the usually lighthearted man. It's almost as if he's entranced by the photo, almost as if he's enamored by their target. Seth doesn't like that intensity focused on such an unworthy target, so he prompts his assistant. "…Alexander?"  
  
"Oh, sorry about that, Seth..." The two pictures are dropped on the desk top without so much as a second glance. "It's just that… I think I've seen this girl around."  
  
"Maybe she looks like someone else you've been introduced to? Her mother's adamant on not having her face plastered on any magazine or newspaper."  
  
"No, I mean. I've seen her around."  
  
"…Hmm. When was the most recent sighting?"  
  
"Just yesterday… at the public library. She's always there." Actually, now that he thinks about it, she's always there – and she's always staring at him with such bedazzled eyes, it's kind of hard to ignore. Especially since for the past couple of days, she's been creeping closer and closer to his usual desk.  
  
"You and your libraries," Seth's tone is almost reproaching, "you just love collecting stalkers, don't you?"  
  
"I'm not collecting them," Alexander protests hotly, "but I do concede that she's sort of stalking me."  
  
"By now, I trust that you're fairly well-versed with handling stalkers." Alexander sinks resignedly against his chair, understanding and hating the way Seth is referencing the title that has been granted to him by countless entertainment networks and gossipmongers. He is the so-called 'Most Sought-After Bachelor' – a distinction that he doesn't care for in the slightest. But he isn't blind to the way women are tripping all over their feet around him. It just makes him distinctly uncomfortable, like a tingling feeling of a rabbit about to be mauled by a pack of lions. "We could use this to our advantage, Alexander."  
  
He doesn't need to possess half of Seth's IQ to recognize that the least risky course of action right now is for him to approach – or maybe just not completely ignore – Bianca Snow, while Seth relays these findings to the clients. He is confident about his own capabilities, so he knows his strengths regarding socializing. He needs to make Bianca at ease around him, enough to reveal damning information about her current hiding place and enough to pin her in place – at least for the amount of time needed for Antoinette Snow to break free from her current engagements and take her daughter back.  
  
"I'll go back there tomorrow," and he's already thinking of plausible excuses he could make to the ladies that will be sorely disappointed by his disappearance on tomorrow's gala. "The sooner we can get this done, the better, right?"  
  
"Of course," Seth looks at him oddly. "As a token of appreciation for the excellent information, maybe I could finish that still-life for you?"  
  
"It's fine—"  
  
"Nonsense—the 'Most Sought-After Bachelor' needs to learn these things." Seth's pale hands are already flipping open the sketchbook to the nearest available page. "I'll teach you the method on how to fake it without being all caught up with art and passion and stuff."  
  
Alexander grins as their fingers brush together as he wiggles in place, especially once Seth doesn't seem to mind the physical contact and doesn't move away. For someone like Seth who absolutely loathes physical contact with everything else that's not his person – a mixture of his own disposition, his hatred of unclean surfaces and his distrust of his own surroundings – something like this feels akin to a victory.   
  
"I'm looking forward to it then," Seth's fingers are quickly brushing the pencil all over the canvas, faint lines of an unmistakable replica of the bowl of fruits in front of them – gentle strokes so out of place with his own forceful and arrogant character, "Master Seth."  
  
The old nickname is enough to make Seth pause in his ministrations, the current case sitting in the confines of his own mind.  
  
Seth isn't the type to banter about senseless trivialities, but there's a barely-there smirk on his face right now – a rare treasure in this world. "Then you should pay attention, apprentice."  
  
"…Of course."  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, December 17—  
  
Feh.  
  
Little Miss is tripping all over her feet, stumbling twice just to stand in front of her prince. She's probably drooling even – disgusting. Desperation has never looked so ugly on anyone.  
  
He adjusts the fake glasses on top of his nose with one hand, while choosing a cookie from the definitely-against-the-rules bag that he snuck inside this dinky library.  
  
Little Miss is entertaining to watch, kinda. Her struggles are all in vain. She definitely can't read people, if she's somehow thinking that she has a chance for her prince. Her prince's eyes are vacant and faraway while talking to her, it's almost a wonder how the two of them are communicating with such disparity in their understanding.  
  
Head Librarian is glaring at him obnoxiously – oops, guess the cookie bag has been discovered. But hey, why don't they ever learn? He's never followed the rules – not during his childhood, not while on important press conferences, and certainly not now. Of course, his ears are still ringing with the harping of his mother – prattling so and so about manners and social graces and what not. Of course, his cheeks are still stinging from the resounding slap from his father – bellowing so and so about being a disgrace to the family and what not. He's very well-behaved compared to ax-crazy murderers, so why bother complaining?  
  
His cookies are top-class since he only buys batches that are personally handmade by the head pastry chef of Jetaime – so there should be zero complaints about smelly food and unsightly crumbs. He even procured the nerdiest-looking glasses he could find just so he'll fit right in here, but apparently such sacrifices aren't enough for people nowadays.  
  
Assistant is making his way towards his desk – oho, most likely under the orders of Head Librarian.  
  
"Um, excuse me—" blahblahblah—  
  
"Feh, just shut up," he doesn't want to listen to the other's stuttering words, not now, not ever.  
  
"But—"  
  
"If I give you a cookie, will you go away?"  
  
"But that's kind of the point why I'm here—"  
  
"Right then, here," he drops an empty cookie bag to the other's fluttering hands – and what do you know, Assistant's reflexes aren't too shabby – and Assistant catches the empty container by pure reflex, "I gave you something and it isn't the cookie. Now go away, I'm studying."  
  
He isn't studying anything – unless one subscribed to the idea that life is a giant classroom blah. He's studying the way Little Miss is trying to appear as cute as possible in front of the prince who somehow knocked his head against something today – well, maybe yesterday too – since he's talking to her. Actually, this strange happening has been ongoing for the past four or five days. It's impossible that the prince somehow fell for Little Miss.  
  
It would make his plans go haywire as well and he isn't really feeling up for that.  
  
Any idiot can recognize the prince as Alexander Castle – the so-called 'Most Sought-After Bachelor'. Any idiot – which means that Little Miss and everyone else in this rundown library belong to a special kind of stupidity, since they don't even recognize the famous man's face.  
  
"You're studying? Oh, um, I'm sorry for disturbing—"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, get lost squirt."  
  
If Assistant replied to his dismissal, he didn't really pay any sort of attention.  
  
Recognizing Alexander Castle is no challenge at all, but pinpointing the correct name and status to Little Miss takes him a couple of days. But now he is armed with the knowledge that Little Miss' identity is Bianca Snow – the only heir to the Snow family fortune. Such a shame that a family with such an exhaustive history and fortune will just end up in the hands of a clueless little princess like her. Such a crying shame that there's nobody in that castle-like estate who has enough brains to start training the Little Miss since youth to prepare her for her duties so that she won't fuck up her family's fortune, and subsequently the world economy.  
  
It's great then that the world has someone as nice as him to guide Little Miss to the correct path. He'll gladly take control of the difficult economics and politics for her and she can… go off and do whatever shit she needs to do to maintain her bland looks.   
  
He's been planning on slowly sweet-talking the Little Miss, but it's going to be difficult with her prince hanging around her. He's long decided that the snaring will take five days, but he's been losing time quite pathetically so he needs to keep his game up. Maybe instead of going for pure sweetness, maybe he should include something riskier and friskier. Little Miss is definitely an inexperienced virgin – his very thorough research tells him that there's never been a minute that the Little Miss has spent outside and away from scrutiny from her overprotective parents. It should be easy to lull her to a false sense of comfortable security. He isn't as experienced as his confidence is insinuating, but he's definitely damned sure that he has excellent control of his own body.  
  
Another cookie disappears inside his mouth as he chews on viciously.   
  
What to do, what to do…  
  
Suddenly, as though prompted by his impatient thoughts, a spectacular chance appears. The prince appears to be going away by some prompt – there's a cellphone flipped open, so it must be an important call.  
  
He schools his expression to be devoid of any irritation whatsoever, as he discreetly wipes his cookie-crumb-fingers on the edges of his woolen cardigan. There's not much to be gained from a couple of minutes' worth of interaction, but he is confident in his skills at making a lasting impression. His instinct has rarely disappointed him; his instinct is yelling at him right now to march over to where the Little Miss is because there's something extraordinary that's going to happen soon.  
  
"Hey," he opts for using the tone of voice he's heard and imitated from some rock star that's supposedly famous amongst everyone, "can I have a moment of your time?"  
  
He keeps the relatively harmless tone as he smiles disarmingly. He doesn't chortle or roll his eyes at the exaggerated way that Little Miss tucks in her hair behind her ear – a useless action propagated by clueless teenage romance stereotypes. There's nothing demure or attractive about that meaningless gesture. He doesn't let any of his thoughts surface on his expression. He continues smiling like a besotted fool.  
  
Little Miss replies something that's possibly polite pleasantries, but he can't be assed to be certain. He watches for those lips to stop moving before he offers some words from his own mouth. "It's just. I've seen you fairly often here. And I…"  
  
He trails off with a long, significant pause, implying something that's definitely not true. Little Miss looks eager to hear more from him. It seems that despite the sudden change of heart regarding ignoring her, the prince hasn't bestowed any words of praise or flattery yet. That's good. That's great. That's perfect.  
  
"I've been waiting for a chance to talk to you."  
  
With the way those doe-eyes widen, he's definitely been able to lure her in his web. Carefully, he avoids revealing any of his usual words and phrases, since abrasive language has never been a good companion to duping women. He's never had to manipulate men like this before, but he supposes that there are no gender barriers when it comes to disliking cruel language.  
  
Like the prince, he doesn't pay attention to the Little Miss' words, but the vital difference is that he is good with pretending. It's a skill that he rarely uses since there's never been plenty of opportunity for him to exercise his talents, but he's nevertheless perfect when it comes to creating realistic illusions about warm and fuzzy emotions.  
  
He lets his mouth run on autopilot with minimum filters regarding meaningful content. He listens to bits and pieces of the Little Miss' replies and statements; he sews together a conversation effortlessly despite his attention divided between the emergency exit where the prince ran off to, and the bag of expensive cookies left on his desk.   
  
Come to think of it, the prince has been gone for quite some time.  
  
It's yet another step closer to his success, but it's all wrong. One simple phone call shouldn't take this long. He's also starting to run out of insipid things to blather about. He's getting heartily sick of easily juggling the Little Miss' bright eyes and keen interest.   
  
Distantly, he hears two sets of footsteps walking towards the main entrance.  
  
As far as he knows, the only staffs today are the Head Librarian and the Assistant; additionally, there are only the three usual patrons. There should only be five in total inside this mold-smelling library and if the prince is still on the other side of the emergency exit door, then the ones heading out together must be the only remaining staff. But why would they leave the library unattended? There's no emergency evacuation siren nor is there any pressing need to leave the Little Miss alone.  
  
…Unless.  
  
Unless this is a set-up – which is, quite frankly, one of the more reasonable explanations behind the prince's sudden 180-degree turnabout regarding his usual methods of dealing with the not-so-subtle stalking.  
  
Despite lacking the connections that he previously had to the entertainment industry – getting disowned and kicked-out of the family really shakes things up – he is still fairly knowledgeable about the things that are happening. Bianca Snow's disappearance is hardly noticeable because she isn't even on the radar to begin with, but her parents' sudden withdrawal from the public eye is.  
  
Right now, the most plausible explanation is that the Little Miss' very rich parents employed expensive private investigators to track their runaway daughter.  
  
He stares at the Little Miss and dimly notices the very obvious effort – that doesn't bear fruit – made towards her appearance. Heavy make-up usage is one way to send one's skin to hell, but this little miss hasn't heard of that little trivia yet, it seems. Her clothing looks itchy with all that ruffles and lace, but it's unquestionably fancy – too fancy for any type of setting that's not a masquerade ball or a formal dinner party. Her hair looks unnaturally black – most likely achieved by some artificial dye. There are all these things and he can still vaguely remember the laughable interview with that one ballsy talk show host and Little Miss' mother.  
  
Jealousy – or more accurately: perceived jealousy – is most likely the greatest defining factor for this stupid decision to leave one's comfort zone. While he's never been the type to develop particularly strong attachments towards family members or lavish homes, the fact remains that he got forcefully separated from his family via disownment. He's not going to wax poetic about losing the important things in life, but he'd like to keep those connections, those riches, as much as possible. And here comes Little Miss – who's too stupid to hold on to her valuable wealth most likely because of some shallow misunderstanding.  
  
Feh.  
  
Disgusting.  
  
It doesn't look like the prince has any intentions of returning to this spot. There's still a soft lull of an aged airconditioner struggling to filter the air and expel torrents of cold air – and no other sound, no footfalls, nothing.  
  
He's never had a chance to personally meet either Antoinette or Vladimir Snow. His information is due to his research and his perfect recollection – and of course, his own instinctive judgment. He's never been with a couple of feet away from Vladimir Snow, but he supposes that it doesn't take much genius to figure out that the current head of the family would probably commit suicide first before prioritizing another being ahead of himself.  
  
Feh.  
  
It only means that the most possible rescuer for the Little Miss is going to be the overprotective mother – if that interview is any indication.  
  
He's waiting for Antoinette Snow to make her entrance, because it will be easy to deal with her. Vladimir Snow doesn't appear to operate under the common laws for human beings, while Antoinette Snow is every inch a human being that possesses faulty, malleable emotions.   
  
It will be so easy to deal with her.  
  
He waits for the balance to tip dangerously to one side and he makes noncommittal small-talk with the Little Miss as he counts every second that fall from the rotting, wooden grandfather clock in the middle of the room. Everything about this library is old-fashioned, except maybe for the videos and computers which are surprisingly operating using the most updated system technology of this era.   
  
And once more, almost as though heralded by the impatient whirlpool of his thoughts, there's a set of footsteps that click ominously against the floors. He's never received firsthand experience about high heels and their click-clack against tiled floors, but that's unnecessary at this point. He knows it's her. He takes a bold step forward and places his hands over Little Miss' bare shoulders. The skin underneath his palms is warm and slightly prickled, like there are dozens of goose bumps mutinously rising up. His height and build should be enough to block the Little Miss' view of the newcomer – delay it for just a couple of seconds.  
  
Antoinette Snow's love for her daughter outstandingly exceeds her own daughter's affection for her. He's counting on the fact that Antoinette Snow will unfailingly recognize her daughter anywhere, even while bodily hidden by some strange guy that's standing too close. He's counting on the fact that Antoinette Snow has never been completely not-unhinged.   
  
He keeps both of his hands on the warm shoulders as he steers the Little Miss away from the aisle and closer to the nearest towering shelf. There's a glass window just a couple of feet away, since the prince preferred to do his reading and slacking off illuminated by natural lighting. The prince's usual table doesn't have the usual piles of books.   
  
Everything is now perfect. There's a number of possible escape routes should things turn for the worst. He can easily smash either the Little Miss or her mother – or even both of them – against the hard wooden edge of the nearby chair or table. He can bury either one of them underneath an accidentally-toppled-over bookcase. He can retrieve the trusty pocketknife he's stashed parallel to his belt and just carve them up a little. He isn't particularly picky. He doesn't favor a particular method of achieving his goals, so he keeps his eyes peeled and his mind open for more possibilities. He's winging it now, only with the barest skeletons of a plan.  
  
His arrogant family's wealth is nowhere compared to the Snow family's assets.  
  
It's fairly difficult to stop his smile from threatening to split his face into two.  
  
Any moment now…  
  
"Bianca?" And he almost cheers in triumph at the way Antoinette Snow's voice breaks a little at her own daughter's name. The skin underneath his fingertips grows cold and tense almost instantly. "Bianca… is that you? Is that really you?"  
  
Little Miss' eyes are wide with incomprehension, but there's also an overwhelming amount of fear and loathing mixed there. That kind of a reaction isn't anything new when it comes to getting caught by one's parents. He keeps his grip tight and unyielding, especially since there's now tremors that feel like a grand prelude to some quick escape. He can't allow that.  
  
"Bianca!" Apparently the lack of denial is enough to ascertain agreement. "Why? What happened? You know what, it doesn't matter. Let's just go back home."  
  
The heartfelt reunion crumbles immediately with those words.  
  
"I will not return EVER!" The Little Miss sidesteps him hastily, a surprising burst of force in her arms as she breaks free of his hold. He lets her go momentarily, because he expects she can't go far. His estimation proves correct as the overbearing mother reads her daughter's movements perfectly as is already reaching out to embrace her wrists with manicured fingernails. The Little Miss screams like a banshee, ironically under the blessing of the 'Keep Silent' reminder sticker. "…EVER!"  
  
It's a messy affair really – he watches from the sidelines as the two women resort to hair-pulling and nail-scratching quite quickly. He'll just gladly wait for the two of them to run out of energy and maybe take one out to make things easier for him. He doesn't favor any one of them since his plan works well no matter what's the outcome of this little catfight, but he's somewhat expecting Antoinette Snow to be more brutal than this. The brief look he made towards the older one's background file is enough to tell him that a savage past can't be easily erased, so there must be some leftover traces of that desperate, deadly circumstances molding her life.  
  
But then again, teenagers are surprisingly stubborn lately. Misguided she may be, the Little Miss moves like an animalistic wrestler.  
  
He's slightly taken aback by the ferocity of the little miss' movements, but that's probably because she's been deprived of the outside world for too long or something like that. Stir-craziness is hardly a logical reason behind running away from home and fighting like a deranged animal, but whatever works for her.  
  
"Just come back to us!"  
  
"I won't come back to you, you whore!"  
  
Feh.  
  
Little Miss and foul words don't seem to mix well – especially since it just seems that she just parroted back whatever swearword she picked up while playing around with the commoners in the area.  
  
It makes for a fantastic distraction though. Antoinette Snow's heartbroken face looks like it's going to shatter into a million pieces – disgusting.  
  
Empowered by the stunned silence of her mother, the Little Miss continues exclaiming a bunch of unintelligible nonsense, culminating with: "I won't come back to someone who wants to kill me because of petty jealousy! I'm the fairest of them all, damn it!"  
  
What the hell is she blabbering about?  
  
Judging from the dumbfounded gaping of the other party, he can be certain that Antoinette Snow has no clue about the insanity her daughter is yelling about either.  
  
There's a missing link in this puzzle somewhere. The Little Miss isn't terribly bright and her conceitedness is off the charts, but there must have been a trigger to this schism, to this discrepancy. There's nothing but selfless, overbearing affection radiating from the mother. Of course, there always exists an infinitesimally small chance that Antoinette Snow really aims to kill her daughter for something as petty as rivalry over their looks.  
  
He shrugs, rolling his shoulders a bit. It's pretty boring just waiting for the argument to diffuse, but he can see the edges of their tempers fraying already. He can see his own chance to further his agenda. He doesn't have anything against Antoinette Snow – no personal vendetta or anything cheap like that. It's just that, this is the way things are supposed to happen.  
  
"I will protect the princess!" He valiantly exclaims, joining the melodramatic atmosphere by removing his thick eyeglasses and ruffling his hair in the process. He whirls smoothly towards the Little Miss, easily putting himself between the two quarrelling women. "I will defeat you, witch!"  
  
To a casual observer's eye, he's carrying nothing but his own bravado. But they're not aware of the perfection of this set-up and they're most definitely not aware of the pocketknife he keeps in his person at all times.  
  
He feels the delighted shudder that runs through the Little Miss' petite frame pressed snugly to his back. The clueless princess probably is swooning in delight at having a knight in shining armor ready to defend her very questionable honor and dignity.  
  
Stricken and lost, Antoinette Snow still looks beautiful – as expected of a well-known model and actress.  
  
Any moment now…  
  
"You—" and it's followed by a stream of unintelligible words that mean nothing to him, not only because he doesn't care, but more due to the fact that Antoinette Snow has reverted into the original language of her barbaric origins. The Little Miss probably looks confused by the gibberish spilling out of her mother's mouth; he doesn't twist around to take a closer look at her expression. After a couple of minutes spent with angry sputtering, the mother recovers her bearings and foregoes the language of the lower-world. "Who are you and what are you doing to my daughter?!"  
  
"I'm her prince," he valiantly claims the irresponsible title of the little miss' savior, stepping slightly to the side instead of bodily blocking the daughter from the mother's viewpoint. "And it's my job to protect the princess from scum like you!"  
  
Antoinette Snow's disapproving glare is more attuned to a normal person's response; Little Miss gives out a squeal at his foolish words and that's more than enough to seal her status of idiocy in his mind.  
  
"Stay away from my daughter."  
  
Instead of bothering with a verbal reply, he lets his lips curl into a taunting smirk. He keeps his eyes focused on the movement of the enraged mother in front of him, on the still-shut door of the emergency exit, on the study tables arranged like building blocks. He thinks about beckoning Antoinette Snow with a challenging finger, but he doesn't get a chance to ponder about that, as the renowned actress practically barrels into him.  
  
With lightning-quick motions – because getting thrown to the streets with barely enough money to sustain his lifestyle has gladly thought him different methods of survival – he backs away from the furious woman, uncaring that he's shoving said woman's daughter backwards as well. With less desperation as someone caught in this situation ought to have, he releases and unfolds the pocketknife from his belt and swings it forward to ward off his attacker. Antoinette Snow only hesitates for a moment before she charges again, but her hand has something metallic in it – something that he recognizes as Alexander Castle's phone from earlier. Before he can even attempt to guess about the phone's sudden appearance, the real purpose of the gadget makes itself known as a blade slides out instead of a keypad as she swings her hand towards him in retaliation.  
  
"Damn ♡", he whispers excitedly underneath his breath, admiring the magnificently cunning prince for this insight. He'd love to get his hands on something like that – nothing better than a harmless, ubiquitous device packing such a wonderful trap. "Feh. This is damn fun ♡."  
  
Continuously, he shoves backwards each time the mother lunges at him, slowly cornering the dimwit daughter against the location he spied on earlier – the heavy bookshelves that could easily crush a living person once an unfortunate toppling accident starts happening. He parries the blows with less ease than he's expecting, but it's still manageable, so there's no big concern there. It seems that his expectations for Antoinette Snow's streetwise skills are being answered, albeit belatedly.   
  
Without bothering to mask the mixture of excitement and bloodlust from appearing on his face, he charges forward once Antoinette Snow slows down for a moment to take a deep breath. His eyes are focused at many different places simultaneously, so he can time this perfectly. He makes a show of gritting his teeth in concentration as he fumbles a little with the sweat-slicked handle of his inferior knife; the Little Miss does a great job of overreacting at every motion of the dance he's weaving; Antoinette Snow doesn't disappoint in picking up the subtle cues for his growing weakness.  
  
"Stay away from my daughter!" Accompanied by the lengthy battle cry, the mother pushes him and his knife back with enough strength to topple over several tables and chairs. He doesn't trip over any of this dump's furniture though, because what he wants to happen is for him to be shoved roughly back against the daughter that has no physical or mental strength whatsoever. As calculated, he crashes with a 'damn' against arms and breasts and the mother looks horror-stricken again with her actions.  
  
"What are you doing?" Indignant shrieking has never been good company to one's eardrums. He keeps on moving backwards though, dragging his feet against the floor with an exaggerated stagger. Purposely, he removes the little chunks of maddening excitement from his wide eyes, leaving only shocked realization and a sense of defeat. As expected, the Little Miss tries a little harder to shake his mostly-unresponsive body as her own mother advances menacingly to deliver the punishment to the person prolonging the family reunion. "Stop it! He's in love with me that's why he's doing this! Don't harm him!"  
  
He carefully doesn't snigger at the conceitedness of those statements. Pointedly, he lets his fingers shake as though in indecision; he even services his opponent with the sight of him fumbling with the pocketknife a little more.   
  
"I'll protect you." He says the words mostly for the benefit of anyone listening to him. "I'll never leave your side." More like a threat to continue being a conniving thorn, he locks eyes with the furious mother and promises darkly, "I'll never let her take you away from me, princess."  
  
As planned, the words trigger a terrifying sort of rage that's all-encompassing. He dearly hopes to never feel as cheap as that – to be able to lose sight of everything just because of silly emotions. But he's counting on humans all over the world to function that way, to be under the control of such powerful feelings, because that makes them easier to predict and manipulate. Antoinette Snow panics with his words, because she has no way of knowing if the prince's investigation reports are true in relaying the fact that her daughter doesn't have any suitors or romantic relations at the moment. Right now, in Antoinette Snow's eyes, he is a formidable enemy because he's acting like he really is chivalrously head over heels in love with the Little Miss.  
  
And unlike Antoinette Snow, he isn't driven by such blinding emotions.  
  
With snake-like motions, he slithers out of the space between the advancing mother and the cornered daughter, timing it just so that Antoinette Snow will land a decisive blow against the Little Miss' person.  
  
It doesn't matter if the inflicted wound is shallow; it doesn't matter if instead of slicing skin, the mother ends up shoving her daughter's airy head against a particularly hard and sharp edge of the bookshelf; it doesn't matter if whatever blow doesn't do enough damage to incapacitate.  
  
He gathers and redistributes the bits and pieces of his concentration as he watches everything unfold in slow-motion.  
  
"Y-You…" The Little Miss looks visibly shaken, eyes wide with fear, anger… and betrayal. "You hurt me."  
  
Disappointingly, there are no splashes of blood anywhere, but the stamped betrayal on the Little Miss' face is more than enough.  
  
"I…" Antoinette Snow's entire body convulses. Shaking fingers drop her weapon, the phone clicking dully against the floors. "I…"  
  
"You hurt…" And the Little Miss' eyes lose focus and roll into the back of her head.  
  
Ah, so the Little Miss fainted.  
  
Perfect.  
  
"Bianca—!"  
  
"Don't touch her," he commands boldly, while bending down slightly to pick up the model's fallen weapon, "don't even think of touching her."  
  
"Stop interfering," the mother righteously insists on claiming her stolen place from her daughter's side, even as her weapon is pointed to her nose. "This is our problem and I will bring her back!"  
  
"Do you think she wants you to?" He asks curiously, maliciously, smiling as he lets the question sink in. "She's never wanted to be locked inside her castle. She's never wanted to be close to the Queen who wants to poison her."  
  
Almost as an afterthought, he adds: "She will never want to be with the cruel mother who hurt her."  
  
"But it's an accident—" On normal circumstances, Antoinette Snow will probably be able to keep a clear head about this matter and easily recognize the way she's been dragged all over the stage like a wooden marionette. Any other person will surely comprehend the fact that he baited the mother into attacking furiously and then dodging at the last minute so that the attack will transfer to the daughter instead. But this is the current situation and there's nobody else present here. "I didn't mean to—"  
  
"You hurt her."  
  
Nothing's better than overkill.  
  
It's much better if he can drive the point home by pointed words, especially if he can't do it with pointed stakes.  
  
"You don't deserve to have her come back to you."  
  
He twirls the pocketknife-disguised-as-a-phone idly. The Little Miss remains blissfully unconscious on the floor. He mildly hopes that she doesn't develop a concussion, because she has too little brain cells to afford losing more. He wants to be with her long enough to gain access to her wealth and if she's rendered too overwhelmingly stupid because of a little knock on the hand, he's going to be extremely furious.  
  
"You're a despicable mother for hurting her."  
  
He repeats his words that are probably echoing even more hollowly inside the stricken mother. With each repeat, he drives the sophisticated pocketknife deeper against the Little Miss' hand, wounding her and finally dyeing the floors with splashes of crimson. Antoinette Snow doesn't even seem to notice the increasingly injured state of her daughter; she's that focused on her own despair and foolishness to even recognize that her daughter's pain is multiplying.  
  
"You're a monster that should stay the hell away from her."  
  
He doesn't possess any magical tricks like hypnotism or what-not, but he can see his cruel statements successfully tearing apart the mother's countenance. He watches her flinch and curl into herself as much as a grown woman possibly can. He's able to reduce someone like her to a pitiful state with a couple of chosen words and some well-matched observations and actions; he's able to do this to someone that he doesn't have a shred of genuine hatred for – he's positively gleeful in thinking that he can do so much more against a person he actually despises.  
  
"What are you waiting for?" He prompts nastily, mostly because he doesn't have enough information on when to expect the occupants of the library to be back. He can easily dispose of the Head Librarian and the Assistant if the need arises, but he'd like to avoid any further complications so he can focus his attention to weaving the most excellent fairytale for the Little Miss once she drifts out of her silly fainting spell. "Get the hell away from her."  
  
Antoinette Snow flees from the scene in a state of obvious distress.  
  
He idly wonders if Alexander Castle is somewhere nearby, if he's waiting for the resolution of the family schism. If that's the case, he doesn't have much time. He needs to talk to the Little Miss quickly. Without any sort of remorse, he soundly slaps the cheek sticky with foundation. He repeats the action thrice since the little miss isn't responding well to his method of rousing her.  
  
With a childish whine, she does come back to her consciousness and before she can even gasp and stutter and do whatever annoying thing she's planning on doing, he quickly seals her lips with a true love's kiss.  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, December 24—  
  
"—despite that, my Queen remains unresponsive." Raymond Weinstein reports – his enthusiastic tone clashing against the content of said report that's contradicted by the constipated expression on his face. "My Queen has been like this for the past week, but there's not much improvement…"  
  
"You don't have to disturb me every single hour to tell me the exact same thing."   
  
Vladimir Snow doesn't even acknowledge the strange way of addressing his wife that's holed up on the opposite wing of the estate, housed so far away so that her depression's oppressive aura will not permeate any other rooms. It's been a week since the resolution of his case and he's grateful for the timely results from William and his son – even if he's not particularly satisfied with the fallout. He gained absolutely nothing from the knowledge that his daughter is stupider than he feared, combined with the reiteration that his wife's heart is as easy to manipulate as defenseless putty.  
  
"Master Snow—"  
  
"I'll place you in charge of monitoring her status," he briskly cuts in, because he isn't stupid unlike everybody else inside this house; the easiest way to get rid of this particular nuisance is to lump them together so that they'll make trouble somewhere out of his sight, "and again, you don't need to report to me. Just take care of her."  
  
His gruff tone leaves no room for speculation about him secretly caring about his wife's welfare.  
  
"As you wish, Master Snow," the aide deliberately bows deep enough to nearly permanently split his spine, a sign of deference so fake it's almost clotting the air.  
  
Not bothering to reply or to look up, Vladimir merely waves a dismissive hand to the direction of the door. He is hardly lacking intelligence, so he's well-aware that his wife's aide is gladly sticking to his wife's side like a particularly nasty adhesive, with or without instructions from him. The only thing he's alleviating with his command is the irritation that goes hand-in-hand with daily interruptions from the aide who's somehow making it a point to give him mundane, useless news that just highlights the disparity between their relationships to Antoinette.  
  
He focuses his gaze on the computer screen in front of him, still slightly unnerved by the piece of technology that's so out-of-place in his study. He prefers making documents from scratch while he lets ink flow out from the ballpoint into a piece of paper, but his current preoccupation isn't something that can be resolved with handwritten transcripts.  
  
Successfully skipping this year's Economic Summit isn't without consequences and he's playing catch-up with the reports to his businesses' investors and to the United Nations Economic Arm. He isn't particularly fond of seeing walls of numbers and equations, but using a computer to keep track of the data and making sure that the financial reports have no unexplained discrepancies makes things faster, lessening the amount of time he has to spend dealing with them. End-of-year reports never fail to usher a bundle of problematic situations, but it's been kind of a slow year for the Snow family. It's not wonderful news, if one looked at it from an economic viewpoint, but from his perspective, less activity means fewer things to report about and he can only be grateful for small mercies.  
  
Moreover, most of the arrangements of the upcoming engagement party are done via electronic communication. He left most of those arrangements in the hands of the people actually getting engaged – he'd just gladly transfer the needed funds if it means not getting disturbed by more nonsense – but as the father of the one about to be engaged, he's apparently expected to take part in some of the preparations, like he's actually interested in getting involved in his daughter's life.  
  
Rapping sounds travel from the closed door to his ears.  
  
He actually looks up, tearing his eyes away from the encoding process of the correspondences he was sealing with several layers of codes.   
  
He doesn't waste time speaking out to allow the visitor to come in; despite the almost polite, soothing rhythm of the knocks, the door opens without waiting for any acknowledgement from the head of the house.  
  
Sebastian Torres waltzes in, uninvited. The newest addition to the household has enough sense to close the door and lock it; Vladimir supposes he should congratulate the teenager's display of proper decorum every once in a while.  
  
"And what do you want this time?"  
  
"Oh, nothing much ♡," the flirtatious voice is in full effect even if the one he's speaking to now is the father of the one he seduced, "just a couple of things ♡."  
  
Vladimir regards the man who successfully broke his wife's psyche, enough to revert her to the stuttering mess that she once was, when she was still living in a place and environment so different—yet so frighteningly the same—from this world. He idly wonders if the other's persuasive words are ineffective against gender barriers, since a man like him can withstand the onslaught of the husky tones and hypnotizing statements, while both his wife and his daughter have fallen prey. But then again, it's hardly going to do him any justice if he compares his situation to those two.  
  
"Is that so," he murmurs, generally unimpressed.  
  
"My, you have such a statuesque face," Sebastian comments with just the right amount of cloying honey-glazed wonder, "it makes me want to break it ♡."  
  
"Shouldn't you be more careful?" Referring to the mockingly affectionate words of cruelty, Vladimir raises an eyebrow but keeps his attention spliced between the intruder to his study and the computer screen that's awaiting his input about lengthening the guest list for the engagement party. "I could be recording this conversation. I could be replaying this to the reception tomorrow. I could destroy you."  
  
Sebastian considers with a thoughtful hum, looking too full of himself to be convincing. "Hmm, but I don't think you will be doing those. You could. But you will not."  
  
Vladimir simply arches his brow higher, a complete picture of disbelief.  
  
"Well, you definitely are recording this conversation." There are no visible cameras or bugs or any surveillance equipment, but the confidence is there nevertheless. "But you will not share it with others. This is just between us, isn't it?"  
  
"I've never been blackmailed by an irritating brat before," Vladimir almost chuckles with the mere idea of getting browbeaten by a teenager a decade his junior. He has experienced this world and everything it has to offer and that kind of knowledge gives sure strength. He can't be defeated by this upstart thrown away by his own family for not knowing how to conform to society—or to pretend, at the very least. Never mind that the nauseating saccharine words are almost enough to fool a number of people; manipulation is definitely one of this brat's talents.  
  
"Feh." Sebastian snorts in disdain, momentarily breaking away from his façade. "Blackmailing is such an ugly word."  
  
"So you mean to tell me you have pure intentions towards my daughter?"  
  
"I have nothing but pure, gentlemanly intentions towards your daughter," the solemnity of those words is tainted by the grimace on the speaker's face, suggesting that the lack of ill intentions is fueled by disgust rather than respect. There's a beat before he continues, smirking, "but I can't promise the same regarding you and your wealth, Sir Vladimir."  
  
"Your intentions are towards me," Vladimir remarks without any semblance of surprise—which makes sense since he's been made aware of the teenager's real intentions from the get-go, "but you're marrying my daughter instead."  
  
"I'm afraid the world is twisted that way."  
  
Rolling his eyes at the sage tone the other adopts, Vladimir corrects the false words. "I'm afraid that you are twisted that way."  
  
"You aren't being a welcoming father-in-law," Sebastian scolds his future in-law, seemingly without care that said in-law is also one of the head of the six pillars that primarily control this world's economy. "And the wedding isn't even here yet!"  
  
"The one you want to marry is the mountain of gold under my name," and it's a tad amusing to use that reality of wealth as a taunt to the one fantasizing and planning for its seizure.   
  
"That's true," Sebastian concedes without any remorse, smiling a greedy smile faintly lined with leftover chocolate from his most recent eating spree, "but you don't object at all."  
  
"I don't care for that lump of yellowed metal."  
  
Vladimir's eyes are now completely focused on his computer screen, fingers flying over the keys as he transfers some of the names of the Not-So-Important People to the bottom of the list coded as 'EXTRA'. Again, he will gladly hand over the complete responsibility of revising the guest list, but his wife only knows shallow models, his daughter doesn't know anybody else outside of this household, and the fiancé has been kicked out of his social circle. He's the only one who can add real names to the invitation list just as he's the only one who can prompt them to attend what's shaping up to be one of the biggest social events of the year.  
  
Carefully, he doesn't let anything appear on his expression, anything that could betray the deep-seated reason for his apathy towards the mountain of gold sealed in the vault underneath this very study. Sebastian's stare is akin to stabbing of twin emerald swords, but he doesn't react to it, not even by sighing dismissively as much as he wants to.  
  
"Well, as long as our deal remains intact, I'm good with how much you don't care for your own wealth." Sebastian says after a long moment of one-sided glaring.  
  
Vladimir gets the urge to sigh once more. Ever since his daughter has been retrieved from her runaway escapade, for the past seven days, Sebastian has unfailingly intruded upon his study to impose his sociopathic temperament and to issue his daily reminder of their unorthodox deal. Frankly, it's long gone past the initial grating on his nerves and has already crossed over to full-blown irritation. He's much too experienced and powerful when it comes to playing games compared to the younger brat, but there's something that he wants from Sebastian—something that he hasn't been able to acquire from his many years of existence.  
  
To his knowledge, there's never been such a complete monster like Sebastian—so detached from humanity that it almost seems like he's on another plane of existence altogether.  
  
Of course, there are serial killers and terrorists over the long history of this world—Jack the Ripper first comes to mind—but Jack the Ripper is a real monster, not a human being, not a natural inhabitant of this world.  
  
Sebastian, on the other hand, is a complete monster wearing a human face, using a human body, living a human existence.  
  
It's fascinating.  
  
Unlike his botched attempt at making a suspenseful story about the real reasons for fear in this world during his first novel, now he has the perfect model for his inspiration. Using Jack the Ripper as the faintly-veiled standard for his previous antagonist was him trying to work with limited resources; using Sebastian as the inspiration for such complete and human cruelty is bound to raise his second novel above the status of a grand masterpiece.  
  
He'll gladly exchange his mountain of gold thrice over if it means he can finally write his magnum opus.  
  
This deal is of no consequence to him.  
  
But of course he doesn't allow those thoughts to escape.  
  
There's no point granting the advantage to the sociopathic teen in a silver platter.  
  
"You've got such an easygoing life," Vladimir comments after a couple of minutes of tense silence punctuated only by the constant tapping of keys, "worrying about nothing except for your greed."  
  
"Think of it as the passion of my youth ♡," was uttered with a very flat tone, opposing the very essence of the words.  
  
"…In any case, I finished updating the guest list. I've sent it to your email."  
  
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're chasing me out right now?"  
  
Vladimir sneers, as he closes all the opened programs and documents pertaining to the engagement party for tomorrow. "I didn't think you'd be so daft to only notice it now?"  
  
"I haven't been that concerned with my social circles," a statement explained by getting thrown out and disowned by his family comprised of models and politicians, "but I think that sort of coldness is a new development to you? Am I the reason for the appalling change in your behavior? ♡"  
  
"Conceitedness doesn't look nice on good-for-nothing people." The long list of names and contact information is replaced by rows and columns of numbers and percentages, as the files for the financial report once again become his main concern. "And I've always been like this—you were just unobservant."  
  
And before Sebastian can utter another word that can sway the conversation to another unfortunate track: "And I am chasing you out. Go work out some of the other preparations for tomorrow. I don't have time to bother with the party."  
  
"Feh. That's very cold. Don't you even want to see your daughter happy?"  
  
"Her happiness doesn't interest me," especially since his daughter's happiness is a very fickle and whimsical thing, governed by trivialities and things that don't matter.  
  
"I'll gladly make the engagement party the most talked-about event for the year ♡."  
  
Vladimir shrugs off that commitment, not because he doesn't believe the other is above pouring a stream of money towards making sure that the event is as lavish as possible, but because he doesn't particularly care if it becomes the most popular gathering of the year.  
  
"Well, go on and do your job…"  
  
"You really are chasing me out."  
  
"Have you suddenly developed a hearing disorder? Or is it your brain that needs to be replaced?"  
  
"Feh. You're no fun." Sebastian does walk toward the locked door, with the full intention of leaving. "By the way, is the lovely Antoinette going to join us tomorrow?"  
  
"If she isn't so unstable," Vladimir answers noncommittally, though to be honest, he doesn't believe his wife is going to be up for the challenge. Reports from her aide aside, her psyche isn't strong enough to withstand this type of shocking turn of events. A bit surprising and a little bit more disappointing—she was plucked from a messy background to become his wife, so unfavorable circumstances are hardly new to her. "Incidentally, I've yet to congratulate you on your great job of incapacitating my wife. You're such a marvelous piece of work; it's no wonder your family had to cut you off."  
  
Like earlier, there's nothing on his tone or facial expression that entertains even the far-flung notion of him secretly caring for his wife or daughter's welfare.  
  
Sebastian pauses while unlocking the door.  
  
"…Damn ♡." A predatory smirk graces the teen's face as he regards the man stubbornly focusing on the financial reports instead of making eye-contact. "That's the best compliment I've ever received, so thank you, father-in-law."  
  
And just as rudely as he entered the study, Sebastian slams the door close, without so much as a goodbye.  
  
Sebastian's assigned room is three floors and seven doors away, but the acknowledgement reply to the emailed guest list arrives at his inbox within five minutes. There are plenty of things left to be taken care of before tomorrow evening arrives, so it's much better that Sebastian is enthusiastic to start working on his part.  
  
Vladimir waits for a few more minutes after his future son-in-law's departure, before releasing the resigned sigh that's been building up inside him during the previous conversation. Fatigue is merrily pounding on his temples like an insistent salesman, the migraine exacerbated by Sebastian's unwelcome presence in his life; the majority of his headache is because of his obligations to the United Nations though. Most businessmen will let go of the tiny discrepancies in the balance sheets—making them, well, unbalanced—but while he loathes getting involved with this, he loathes doing imperfect work more. It's not about pride nor is it about some compulsion to be always right. It's just that he hates doing worthless things and churning out mistake-riddled reports count as worthless in his vocabulary.   
  
His computer screen suddenly turns black, its automatic sleep function activated by the minutes of inactivity. The disappearance of the spreadsheets welcomes the sight of his own face reflected on the monitor—a sight that's terribly unfamiliar to him, given how much he avoids going near a reflective surface. Time hasn't done him many favors regarding appearances, but he thinks that he still looks mostly the same as years before. Change isn't a big factor in his lifestyle and having a nuisance like Sebastian is quite possibly the second biggest upheaval in his entire life.  
  
The smell of fresh flowers permeates the entire room, casually inviting him to fall deeper into reminiscence.  
  
He resists with a sharp roll of his eyes, dispelling any other distractions that can pull him away from his resolve to finish all of these obligations today.  
  
"…Argh, this isn't working…"  
  
And yet, despite his verbal complaints unanswered by the freshly-watered plants and earthen flowerpots, he continues working in solitude.  
  
…and despite his current job involving a myriad of transactions that require him to transfer money out from his funds—and despite his total obedience to the law enforcing each human being to only own one bank account attached to their name—the number signifying his current account balance only, curiously, increases…  
  
***  
  
Year 3671, December 25—  
  
"It's really like a fairy tale," Bianca Snow's laugh rings crystal clear across the crowded reception area, easily attracting the attention of everyone in the perimeter, "or rather… it's really like, love at first sight!"  
  
While it's true that Christmas has long lost the importance it used to have over most of humanity, it's still a remarkable feat for the Snow family to hold the engagement party for their only child on this holiday. More importantly, it's noteworthy that everybody on the guest list showed up, even if today is a holiday usually spent spending time with one's loved ones.  
  
"He fell in love with me," shamelessly retelling her skewed version of the story to every single person in the vicinity, Bianca sustains her loud voice that's never ever been successfully controlled. "Like, love at first sight!"  
  
•  
  
The rose garden looks ethereal, almost as if it was transported from some otherworldly fairytale; instead of the deep green color of natural grass, the entirety of the reception area and the connected garden is carpeted by artificial silver snow. Red roses are in full bloom despite the cool weather that usually wilts the edges of the petals; the mixed smell of the guests' exotic perfumes is easily overpowered by the aroma of painstakingly prepared food in the open buffet and the natural scent of the outside garden. The grandiose setting is nearly enough to completely capture the guests' attention – but of course, not everyone here are present for the same reasons.  
  
"I guess love really happens in the strangest places," conversationally, Alexander Castle speaks to the fiancé with the aura of long-time friends. But of course, that's just an illusion – there are far too many starry-eyed gazes and eavesdropping ears blatantly tracking the Most Wanted Bachelor in the entire world, rendering any private conversation useless.  
  
"…It really does." Sebastian Torres agrees with a friendly smile that he's never had to use during the brief time that he spent inside the same four, bland walls of the tiny library downtown. If his conversation partner finds his sociable attitude jarring… well, good riddance to him. He's confident that good old Prince Alexander isn't the type to instigate irrelevant scandals, especially in the middle of a huge social function.   
  
Laughter from Bianca's table easily crosses the distance across the entire reception area. Sebastian pointedly stares at his fiancée's form – or at least, he thinks he's staring at her; it's a bit too far away to properly distinguish one ugly fool from another – with something that he supposes is enough of a sickeningly sweet gaze. She's probably recounting a very delusional and heavily edited version of how the two of them met and fell in love. He avoids that topic like a plague, not because he's embarrassed about reminiscing and acting like a heartsick idiot, but because there's nothing to tell. Little Miss was so obviously infatuated with Bachelor Prince – this engagement is all about the manipulative orchestra he weaved for the world to listen to.  
  
"Well then," with both hands occupied with holding up two plates filled with different sweets in bite-sized portions, Alexander starts to make his leave; Alexander's smile is borderline creepy with the way it simply radiates genuine happiness, even if the other's eyes are blank with apathy, "congratulations again. I should get back to my companion."  
  
Sebastian's eyes follow Alexander's retreating form, slightly surprised that the so-called Bachelor Prince doesn't make his way back to the VIP table near the podium where the rest of the Castle Family representatives are seated. The Bachelor Prince doesn't get sidetracked by the loony fans trailing after him like goldfish shit either. Instead, Alexander deposits the plates filled to near-overflowing capacity to the mostly unoccupied table to the far edge of the garden, away from most of the attractions and the fanfare.   
  
While he can't claim superior knowledge when it comes to recognizing popular people immediately, Sebastian can safely admit to himself that he has no clue on the identity of Alexander's companion. The distance that can't be bridged by a normal person's eyesight is only part of the problem; in his eighteen years of life, Sebastian really cannot recognize the person's unkempt appearance. He furrows his eyebrows, deep in thought. He immediately smoothens out his expression once he senses some other nameless noble pass by before congratulating him on bagging the perfect fiancée.  
  
"Thank you," he returns the handshake with just the right amount of confidence in his grip, a sunny smile making an arch on his face. He keeps the smile on his face even when he recognizes his parents from lingering at a distance of six tables away.  
  
His old bastard geezer of a father is surrounded by fellow businessmen and the faint cloud of expensive cigar smoke, a full glass of red wine in the hand not holding onto to his cigar. His mother, as usual, is surrounded by equally airheaded and vapid members of the model industry, the small crowd of models dressed in provocative, revealing dresses designed from the Flamingo fashion line attracting a bunch of photographers hired for the event. His younger brother is nowhere to be found, but that's to be expected; he doesn't stand out at all and it's something that cannot be remedied by entering puberty and finally getting a couple of inches added to his height.   
  
He doesn't let his gaze linger on the family that has thrown him away and officially disowned him. He doesn't make a move to greet them either. He will leave that chore to his dearly beloved father-in-law, because Vladimir was the one who wanted to test his patience by inviting those unwanted pests.  
  
Hiding his yawn from behind his hand, Sebastian makes a beeline towards the open buffet station with the least amount of people loitering around. There's hardly a pang of hunger inside his stomach, but the lack of that telltale growling of emptiness has never stopped him before from taking a sample out of everything in the menu and stuffing his face full of them. Getting a taste of everything is part of the perks of someone standing at the top – and now that he's back on his rightful position, much thanks to the stupidity of a certain Little Miss…  
  
•  
  
It's already been two hours since the start of the festivities, but the energy inside the reception area isn't dipping at all. Not for the first time, Vladimir feels a mix of awe and irritation at his fellow nobles' increased interest when it comes to mingling around with their fake smiles and sharp eyes.  
  
Due to his wife's reputation and line of work, there are a lot of models, actresses and editors from fashion magazines, easily attracting a number of photographers and newswriters who are only too eager to report about the lavish party and the scandals that are always generated by self-centered idiots being compressed in such a tiny space ill-equipped to handle a critical amount of stupidity. Carelessness isn't a trait that anyone would associate with him though; that's why there are military-trained security guards courtesy of William's influence in the police and military, despite the fact that the Fitzgerald's position in the United Nations has already been handed over to the next generation. Cool tension and heated glares are fine, but there's no room for physical confrontations and tasteless violence—at the very least, not while the guests are still within the confines of his estate.  
  
Despite the overwhelming number of giggly actresses that apparently find it helpful to their images to leave nothing to the imagination when it comes to showing off their unnaturally blemish-free bodies, businessmen and economic leaders still comprise the majority of the guests. Without any sort of guilt, Vladimir did include his colleagues in the guest list because there always are… talks at some secured, secluded corner of a huge party, especially reserved for the people who control most of the money circulating in the world.  
  
He would like to convene first with the fellow leaders of the Economic Pillar, but it seems that most of them are still lingering around with their companions and enjoying the free-flow food. Vladimir rolls his eyes at the guests who are blatantly staring at all the decorations while unsubtly calculating the total cost of this party. There's bound to be rampant speculations on the papers and entertainment news channels tomorrow; most of them are bound to be absurdly away from the truth.  
  
Vladimir inches closer to his wife's sickly form complete with glassy eyes and sweaty palms, and easily ignores the disapproving look from her devoted aide. Even while they were newlyweds, Vladimir has never felt any sort of overwhelming affection for his wife; that doesn't stop him from gently brushing the stray locks of hair from her face so that she'll look beautiful for the cameras, playing the role of the aloof but caring husband for the rest of the world to gossip about. This has nothing to do about love or genuine attraction, so there's no point in her aide wasting energy to be jealous.  
  
The official explanation for his wife's unresponsive and speechless appearance is because of some nasty disease that cruelly, temporarily, stole most of her conscious energy. There's no way that her rivals and everybody else will believe such a flimsy excuse, but they have no choice aside from accepting the explanation of the person so generously giving them a reason to party. Infrequent visitor he may be to senseless social gatherings, he still is one of the six Economic Pillars and he still has one of the biggest bank accounts in the world. Humanity instinctively cowers before his wealth—they intuitively know not to mess with him.  
  
"Antoinette is still sick?"  
  
"…Unfortunately."  
  
"It is great that she is here then," William Fitzgerald acknowledges the presence of the overprotective mother despite the obvious sickness, "she loves her daughter very much, after all."  
  
"…Unfortunately," Vladimir repeats his reply, shrugging. He stands up, gesturing for his friend to accompany him and for Raymond to stand by his wife's side. Despite the relative noise level, he still manages to catch the angry mutterings from the aide who loathes receiving instructions from him.  
  
William waits until the two of them are inside the spacious conference room before asking, "You will leave your wife in that aide's care?"   
  
"It's the best arrangement," Vladimir doesn't have the patience nor the desire to be the one fawning over his wife's lifeless form, so he'll gladly grant her aide the pleasure of being the slobbering dog that he desperately wants to be, "since I'm be busy with a lot of things."  
  
"I can lend you my second and third units for an extended amount of time," and it's an offer that's not really optional at this point.  
  
Vladimir nods in acknowledgement, but while he's thankful for his friend's unquestioning help, he also knows that these things don't always come without compensation. He unlocks the top drawer and retrieves one of the leather-bound checkbooks, already inked with his name, seal and signature. Most people will never get the chance of issuing a blank check in their life, but that's what he's doing at the moment, passing the piece of paper that can be worth billions, depending on whatever William writes there, without much preamble.  
  
"Shouldn't you focus more of your men on your child?"  
  
"Seth can take care of himself." William accepts the crisp paper and neatly folds it into two, slipping it into his pocket afterwards. "…Is there a reason for me to get involved?"  
  
"Your brat is backed by the Castle's heir, hmm?" Vladimir then scribbles something unto the back of another blank check, a small list of names, dates and contact numbers, all from memory. It's unlikely that his fellow businessmen missed the way he left with his very tall and imposing friend; they've most likely surmised that it was a signal for the impromptu economic meeting to start. There's not enough time for him to securely pass the information that he managed to find out while he's looking over the financial records of certain groups. It's also not within his interests to meddle with someone else's affairs, especially not when the young Fitzgerald seems to be picking his fights left and right with the mafia bosses without a shred of self-preservation. "There shouldn't be any cause for… worry, as long as he proceeds carefully from now on."  
  
"…I understand. I will tell him to… proceed carefully."  
  
Vladimir doesn't say anything else, simply locking the drawer once more, before moving towards the door and opening it to the sight of familiar faces waiting to be let in. If any one of the terrorists that the United Nations Army is pursuing somehow manages to get wind of this congregation of the world's superpowers, they're definitely in trouble. Not just the Economic Pillars, but representatives from the United Nations are also here; just one well-placed bomb is enough to turn this engagement party into one giant catastrophe. Of course, each of these guests has brought something equivalent to a small army, but still…  
  
There isn't any point in giving into paranoia though. All that he wants is for this meeting to start so that it can end soon. There are more worthwhile things that he can be focusing on instead of controlling the flow of money, just as he could easily be not involved with a party filled with people masquerading as happy human beings.  
  
With a tight smile that doesn't leave room for speculation about how thrilled he is to be here, Vladimir lets his guests in with a dismissive flick of his hand towards the long table in the middle of the room. "Come. Let's get this over with."  
  
•  
  
Most of the guests are already making their way to the exit where their own butlers and servants are waiting to whisk them back to their own lavish estates or to some other gaudy party. Servants wearing white from head to toe are milling around to discreetly start the cleanup, while directing the guests to their coats and to their waiting cars.  
  
The Queen of this household is off to some unknown location – most likely already tucked in by the family doctor and her bumbling aide; the King of the house is busy mingling with his fellow rich businessmen friends to worry about leaving a lasting impression to their guests. The Little Miss has never been particularly bright when it comes to handling social obligations – and he can't really expect much from someone like her who has been kept away from the rest of the world for most of her life.  
  
"Thank you for coming," Sebastian says with a practiced smile, a firm handshake ready for the tiny person in front of him.   
  
"O-O-Oh, t-t-t-thank you as well," the young man bows down instead of accepting the proffered handshake, making his already diminutive height shrink even more, "t-t-t-thank you for inviting m-m-me."  
  
Tripping all over one's words isn't a good sign of an upstanding person – but it doesn't make sense for some commoner to be invited here. Sebastian allows the edges of his smile to grow a little cold, since there's no point in acting sweet and welcoming to someone undeserving of anything aside from contempt.   
  
"You're welcome~" Little Miss cuts in, releasing an unpleasant high-pitched giggle, her breath smelling faintly of honey and alcohol. "Jamil, thanks for comingggg~"  
  
…Figures.  
  
So the Little Miss was the one who invited this person then.  
  
Sebastian lets the ice melt from his smile, as he grasps his fiancée's waist with his hand, holding her close to him.  
  
There's something about the tiny man that just rubs him off the wrong way and it's not something as petty as jealousy. He makes a mental note to find out what is this man's relationship to the Little Miss, especially since the two of them are talking – one is stuttering still, but – avidly about some topic that's of no consequence to him. He allows them to converse for a couple more minutes, while he ponders about how unfamiliar the man appears.  
  
"My sweet darling ♡," fed up with the way the two speak as though they have anything interesting to talk about, he addresses his fiancée without gagging or sneering, pressing her drunk form closer to his side, "let's go."  
  
"Oooh, I love it when you call me that…"  
  
Without wasting another moment, without so much as a goodbye, Sebastian bodily drags his fiancée away from the middle of the reception area and towards the other's bedroom. To the eyes of anybody else watching them, it's as though he's a caring man who can't wait to take care of his soon-to-be-wife, in the privacy of their shared bedroom. That's a bit disgusting, but it's fine if that's what everybody sees – it's better than fine.  
  
After all, fairy tales end with a 'they live happily ever after', right?  
  
…well, he doesn't really give a damn about the rest of them, but he alone is going to live happily ever after, with a mountain of gold attached to his name.  
  
No matter what.  
  
***  
  
Jamil Rock looks at the retreating form of the Prince and the Princess.  
  
The King and Queen are nowhere to be found. The poison apple is deep within these foolish hearts. The Prince is a sociopath. The Princess is an idiot who doesn't know anything.  
  
He's only here because he gladly offered the runaway princess a means of survival during her bout of stupidity. As one of the Seven Dwarfs in this story, he supposes that this opportunity to be inside this castle is his reward for spending nights on the couch instead of his own bed, while working hard enough to feed two mouths instead of one.  
  
This fairy tale is far from over, but the tale that comes afterward isn't as simple and as not-unhappy as this one.   
  
Jamil supposes that as long as the main gist is the same, it's still a happy end?  
  
"W-W-Well, g-g-good luck or whatever that m-m-means," he watches the Prince and the Princess disappear from his eyesight, "may you get y-y-your happy ever after, or s-s-something like that."  
  
•••


	4. story the first: the courtroom of chaos;

•••

  
**fractured fairy tale**   
**(—"once upon a time"—)**   
  
_story the first: the courtroom of chaos;_

  
  
•••  
  
"—s-s-so that's the e-end of it!"  
  
There's only absolute silence at the end of the very cheerful retelling; the lack of noise is so overwhelming to the point that one tiny flake of dead skin could dry out and tumble down to the floor and everybody inside the massive hall would have heard the noise.   
  
"W-Well, we didn't exactly lie." Uneasy. "The main gist is still the same?" Fidgety. "It… It's s-still a h-happy ending anyway?"  
  
There's another bout of silence. Before the stillness stretches on and snaps, someone speaks out with his usual stiff demeanor, "Thank you for your report. Your Majesty…?"  
  
The Queen of Hearts' expression didn't change all throughout the report and it doesn't start now. There's only serene blankness in those eyes—almost as though the Queen of Hearts is incredibly bored with the proceedings.   
  
"Y-Your Majesty…?" As the designated leader for their group, he tries to erase any sort of undue hesitation in his words. It's quite difficult to achieve; there's a readily available proof of the brilliant track record of what happens to those unfortunate enough to bore the Queen of Hearts. He strengthens his heart to a bravado fitting someone vying for the position of being the lead representative of the Dwarfs.   
  
"I'll need to retrieve the surveillance evidence within the next twenty-four hours," and once more, the words surface not from the Queen of Hearts but from the officer standing stiffly to the side. He rolls his eyes at the terminology that just reeks of inexperience with this realm and the way of temporal flow here. Nobody bothers with the measurement for hours here—not when there are lengthier ways of measuring time, not when there's relativity between this and that.   
  
"Sure thing, Jack of Hearts," with none of the usual stutter, he replies with a colder and more controlled voice, because he has no qualms about acting a tad meaner to a mere guard dog.   
  
If the Queen of Hearts' loyal servant detects the pinch of acidity in his tone, the other lets it pass wordlessly.   
  
"Is there anything else then that you'd like to report?" The Jack of Hearts' face is even worse than boring, gray slabs of stone. The apathetic expression doesn't waver even if a hint of cruel mockery slips into the other's taunting inquiry. "Or are there any other… amendments in your report that you'd like to make known?"  
  
W-Well, it's not like they would have spun the tale around if they were aware of the Jack of Hearts' utter lack of sense of humor. W-Well, fine, they were aware of the other's complete insensitivity, but they didn't think that it would come to this.  
  
And it's not just them.  
  
The entirety of this realm's inhabitants is re-learning how to treat the rulers of this land; everybody is unfamiliar with the extremely new and novel Queen of Hearts. Certain rules and knowledge that they abided to before are now useless and even wrong. With this Queen of Hearts, it is entirely possible that a law will be made to punish anything less than the complete truth when speaking inside the Kingdom of Hearts castle.  
  
But that isn't really any of their concern, not right now at least.  
  
"Nope, everything's all good and dandy."  
  
"Then, you are dismissed."  
  
Jamil Rock rises from his kneeling position, daring himself to look square into the one visible eye of the Jack of Hearts and finding nothing but a dark abyss there. There should be no reason for someone like him to be flustered when faced with the other's indifference, especially since he is already the next in line to replace Sir Grumpy as the main representative for their race. He's someone who has proven himself not only to his fellow Dwarves, but also to fellow informant spies—and hopefully also to the Queen of Hearts.  
  
"—is there anything else?"  
  
Oh.  
  
The temperature inside the hall dips by a couple of degrees, ice snaking in down his back with the words uttered with such boredom and such power, it almost brings him back down to his knees. Hearing the voice of the Queen of Hearts directly is supposedly an honor, but there's no rush of achievement from listening to the oppressive voice of a self-aware tyrant.  
  
He drops his gaze from the Jack of Hearts' eye, focusing it to a random spot on the floor in front of him. Inevitably, there are countless ill rumors regarding the Queen of Hearts and the chosen aide, and while Jamil has enough sense of self-preservation to not immediately blab about the observation he's making right now, he will definitely be selling this information to anyone who can pay for it. It isn't unheard of for the Queen of Hearts to have a good relationship with whichever aide was chosen for the promotion—but this isn't exactly a good relationship… strange and unsettling fit the description better.  
  
"…T-T-T-T-There's nothing else, Your Majesty."  
  
"…Ha? Get lost then."  
  
"Y-Y-Y-Yes, Your Majesty!"  
  
Without any of the grace he's been practicing with for the better part of his existence, Jamil clumsily runs towards the exit, away from the unsettling environment of the mostly empty courtroom.  
  
H-He's so stupid!  
  
Why did he even think it's going to go smoothly?  
  
He isn't a newbie when it comes to being a visitor to the courtroom, but this is the first time he's there for an individual report! His ventures to the courtroom have always been limited to the official summons and he has always attended those alongside fellow Dwarves and representatives from other races. It's easier to avoid attracting attention to himself when he was surrounded by a huge crowd; it's less nerve-wracking to make mistakes when he isn't the only one being scrutinized and interrogated.  
  
B-But he shouldn't lose hope!  
  
It's not like he failed this mission!  
  
He didn't even apply for an extension, even though the fast pace of his work is mostly thanks to the accelerated pace of his mission targets. But that isn't the point! The point is, he did his job and he didn't miss anything. He was able to observe and ascertain the targets that were assigned to him, which makes him a successful information spy. There shouldn't be any complaints from the Queen of Hearts!  
  
The realm was getting worried about the strange wealth accumulating underneath Vladimir Snow's basement vault—strange not because the Snow family isn't the most powerful family in the world, but because the wealth is undeclared in bank accounts and tax revenue records, almost as though the owner isn't interested in proclaiming the existence of the mountain of gold. Jamil did get a confirmation that Vladimir Snow isn't a rogue alchemist from this realm that's simply using his otherworldly powers to conquer human weakness; Vladimir Snow was determined to be a powerful, yet extremely normal… definitely a human being.  
  
The second target was Sebastian Torres, a person whose aura signature was eerily close to a demon's. It was another false alarm: apparently human evilness are now so sophisticated that they could rival pure, distilled, demonic sin.   
  
Nevertheless, false alarm or not, he was able to finish his observation logs and he was able to extract himself without much fracture in the web of human interactions. He has nothing to be afraid of! He should be looking forward to praise and maybe a promotion! There's nothing to be afraid of!  
  
…Now if only he can believe those words, he can get his own happy ending too.  
  
***  
  
 **[end: snow white]**


	5. fantasy the second: Cinderella and her glass slipper;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (chapter is wip)

•••  
  
 **fractured fairy tale**  
 **(—"once upon a time"—)**  
  
 _fantasy the second: Cinderella and her glass slipper;_  
  
•••


	6. reality the second: The Gates of Darkness and the sterling moonlight case;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (chapter is 85% done)

•••  


**fractured fairy tale**  
**(—"once upon a time"—)**  
  
_reality the second: The Gates of Darkness and the sterling moonlight case;_

  
•••  
  
Year 3672, March 19—  
  
It happens out of nowhere.  
  
Not once in her life did Paula Sterling possess any delusions about the strength of the family she belongs to. Despite the surname 'Sterling' carrying the weight of a hundred years of prosperity, the total accumulated worth is only enough to bring the Sterling family to the last rank of the Economic Pillars. It's still a feat worthy of awe and amazement, but Paula has never counted on that kind of fortune before, not even during her first few months of being inside the luxurious mansion. Rather than expecting good things to shower down on her shoulders, she has been expecting hardships from both the karmic balance in this world, as well as attacks from people that they will undoubtedly trample upon.  
  
Paula is logical and open-minded when it comes to pursuing the correct set of expectations. It's what comes naturally to her, a scholar who prefers to stay cooped up in her personal underground laboratory surrounded by a massive book collection rivaled by only the Great Library. She isn't concerned about a lot of things, freeing up space inside her mind that are usually reserved for thinking about others. She is capable of rational thought.  
  
It still happens out of nowhere, unpredicted by any of her more pessimistic musings. There haven't been a lot of developments recently and it's almost been peaceful for past couple of months. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Jonathan sprawled gracelessly on the floor, half-bared back visibly broadcasting the ten bullet holes arranged like a malformed star. The navy blue carpet of her husband's office is darkened with spilled blood; the usual smell of cigar and drugs is overpowered by the stench of decay. Papers and folders are strewn all over the room, almost as if a tornado was spun out of vehement magic inside the office, wrecking every single thing away from their order and seducing them to a chaotic state. Even the supercomputer terminal on the office desk doesn't manage to escape unscathed—with its monitor screen cracked like some cheap glass painting, the keyboard missing some of its keys and wires overflowing from inside the motherboard, there's no doubt that the culprit enjoyed his time with the upheaval of the office.  
  
Upon the wretched discovery, Paula collapses to her knees, but cooperates with the police force by doing it outside of the secured crime scene, gazing at the fallen form of her husband from behind the security detail set up around the room's perimeter.  
  
There has never been a point during their eighteen-year marriage during which she entertained thoughts of developing feelings of love towards her husband. She isn't regretting not learning affection for the now-dead man, but an odd sort of helplessness encases her entire body as her mind overdrives to remember every faint detail of her husband's last couple of days—she didn't notice anything off within the mansion, but she rarely ventures out of her private laboratory and even more rarely does she willingly spend more than five minutes within range of her husband's company. She can't answer any of the investigators' questions with certainty, aside from the type of certainty that is uselessly proud of its failure to contribute any pertinent information.  
  
She gratefully accepts the hand that assists her to properly sit down with the investigator leading this case, but before she lets herself be steered towards one of the many old-fashioned studies of the main residence, she leaves detailed instructions to her most trusted set of aides so they could properly deal with the flock of reporters that are sure to sniff out the flagrant smell of decay and weakness. Preserving the crime scene aside, she isn't in a state where she can answer nosy questions that will fill up society's gossips; it's best to leave handling the paparazzi to the bottommost part of her priority list. Nothing good arises from conversing with those people anyway.  
  
"—I would like to extend my deepest condolences."  
  
Paula is thankful that she's the first one who entered the study that's apparently already occupied. Surprise fills her and it takes around a minute to clear her mind of the confused dizziness that seems to soak her from everywhere; she manages to cross the distance between her and her unusual guest, bowing respectfully as befitting someone of her station. While it's true that Sir William Fitzgerald has already resigned from his post in the United Nations Army, he is still a formidable person with the backing of his family's wealth as the third-ranked Economic Pillar. Someone of his caliber isn't fitting to be stuck in a study lacking any of the top-grade wine reserved for entertaining guests. She feels her palms grow sweaty as she wracks her mind for the standard procedure that Jonathan told her to follow whenever someone special deigns to drop by.  
  
"Thank you very much for your concern."  
  
"I have enlisted the help of Ekaterina Otto and Timothy Light so they can allot their best personnel to supervise the proceedings."  
  
Before she married Jonathan, she possessed very little connections to the United Nations leaders and ministers; she can never get used to the idea of the world's nobles banding together at a time like this, full cooperation and full power for the sake of one dead person when this type of efficient teamwork doesn't even have a chance of appearing when mere commoners' fates are involved. It's almost nauseating. She smiles though, a thin spread of her lips, stray locks of her hair sticking uncomfortably against her sweaty cheek.  
  
"I appreciate your help and concern," her opinion on the matter isn't relevant; she's just someone who married an old man that she never ever dreamed of loving, because her research projects can't fund themselves, "but please take a seat first, Sir Fitzgerald. We can discuss the details after the Chief Inspector manages to assemble the initial data." She gestures to the rarely-used loveseat beside a fireplace that shamelessly smells of ancient wood. "I'm sure Jonathan would… appreciate all of your assistance."  
  
The two of them didn't have to wait too long, as the Chief Inspector joins them in the study, bringing along a small congregation of police officers with grim determination painted stiffly over their faces.  
  
"I'm from the Ministry of Health." A bespectacled young man, with bandages wrapped upon every inch of visible skin save for his face, singles himself out by way of an introduction steeped with an air of arrogance, looking down at them in undisguised disdain. "And as I'm sure you're already aware, the Chief Inspector here was personally handpicked by the Minister of Peace."  
  
"I'm aware," Paula rises from her seat and extends a hand to complete the pleasantries. She's only somewhat disappointed when the arrogant man doesn't refuse the handshake and instead extends his own bandaged hand.  
  
"I'll level with you," the bespectacled man dumps a briefcase into the table devoid of any wine that usually accompanies a group such as theirs, "the only reason why I'm here is because of the suspicion that Mr. Sterling's murder is part of the chain that the United Nations is investigating. Most of the details are still classified and this still needs a lot of thorough investigation, but we're looking at a serial killer targeting particularly influential people."  
  
…Influential… is a good word to describe her husband.  
  
Not all influences need to be beneficial, after all.  
  
Her initial urge is to worriedly ask about the safety of the rest of this mansion's inhabitants and her husband's other distant relatives. One look at that face dripping all over with smug superiority stops her though, mostly because that kind of attitude isn't very welcoming to inquiries. Additionally, it's strange that a representative from the Ministry of Health is the one disclosing that type of sensitive information—there must be something else more sinister that they're not telling her. Or perhaps they suspect the killer of using an entirely different and unfathomable method of murder.  
  
She bites the inside of her cheek as she ponders about the gruesome scene that she witnessed barely half an hour ago. She's positive that she saw ten bullet holes decorating Jonathan's back, but it's not unlikely for a clever madman to disguise his methods by making everything appear too obvious. Research regarding diseases and poisons has never been her forte, but she doesn't slack off when it comes to obtaining the latest news about the health community—if the suspected method is something that can affect a number of civilians, even the snootiest official will be pressed to make announcements about avoiding so-and-so. But to her knowledge, there hasn't been any uproar about that, so it's probably not contagious or poisonous…?  
  
Most of her colleagues avoid speaking with her because she's prone to taking up to five minutes before contributing to a conversation. She's just more careful with choosing her words and actions compared to the rest of the world. She dislikes the feeling of hastily blurting out the wrong thing just because she couldn't be patient with her thoughts. "…When will know about certain specifics then?"  
  
"Investigations been goin' for a month now since the first incident," the Chief Inspector volunteers the information this time, warm tone clashing with the droopy eyes and sickly pallor. "Honestly, we've got no estimated time yet, but we'll keep ya' posted."  
  
Her own work has discouraged her from spending too much time watching the recent news, but there doesn't seem to be anything that stands out during the past month. It's been really peaceful lately but apparently such ignorance is a grating sort of bliss.  
  
…This isn't what she should be thinking of right now.  
  
"What kind of details can we give the media then?"  
  
…Not that either.  
  
"We'll be takin' care of that, no worries!"  
  
So she just needs to keep her official statement focused on the standard grieving process, make the crime's details as vague as plausible, add some trusting words about placing all her faith with the United Nations.  
  
Her pulse drums against her temples sharply, as she thinks about the troublesome things that are now going to clog her schedule. There's also the matter of security for her papers and laboratory, not to mention providing security detail for the entire mansion. She also needs to contact Jonathan's distant family, which could be another set of trouble since the ones she managed to meet before have long been dead. Additionally, there's just about three months until the annual Economic Summit and she's certain that the world will not be very forgiving if nobody comes to represent the Sterling family, even if there's an extenuating circumstance at hand.  
  
"I'll be waiting for your correspondence then." She excuses herself with a halfhearted smile and a deep bow, the perfect picture of a strong woman valiantly attempting to contain her misery. "The family secretary will be forwarding the approved official statement and the copies of the security feeds. Then, if there's anything else that you need, please do let us know immediately."  
  
"Mrs. Sterling, please rest assured that we will be solving this case. My son will be joining the investigation; he is starting to work on finding the culprit as we speak."  
  
Paula doesn't bristle at the absolute confidence in those words. His son… should be Seth Fitzgerald then. The brat is infamous for fulfilling the idealized version of a Genius Teenage Detective, though his fame is equally due to his insistence on never meeting his clients face to face. But his prowess is the real thing—Paula has watched and followed some of the brat's more popular broadcasted cases. The culprit will be definitely captured then.  
  
"Thank you again for your kind assistance." The door to the hallway looks the same as always but now that Jonathan isn't here anymore, she's the one who needs to make her presence known amongst the interlocked corridors. "I'll be taking my leave then."  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, March 30—  
  
Everything is a mess.  
  
While the Sterling name is particularly noteworthy because of its sudden ascent across the noble's ranks, acquiring exponential wealth within a century that's more than enough to propel it forward to gaining the distinction of one the Economic Pillars, it doesn't possess the envious ability to inspire confidence amongst its investors and business acquaintances. It doesn't have the kind of history that millennia-strong families have accumulated. That kind of weakness soon becomes apparent the moment the news of her husband's death spreads like an unrepentant wildfire.  
  
Meetings take over her life and schedule.  
  
During their relatively long marriage, she has never bothered to acquire any form of interest regarding the stock market or regarding balancing checkbooks. She's now dearly paying for the lack of foresight, because her research contributes nothing to her understanding of the financial world. It's not even two weeks yet and she's already feeling enough stress to last three lifetimes.  
  
The snake is already gnawing at its own tail in hunger; there's nothing she can do to stop it.  
  
…Nothing, aside from cutting her own tail short, to give her a little extra breathing room.  
  
Remorselessly, she prioritizes saving her private laboratory first.  
  
She sells most of the Sterling family's assets, because Jonathan's distant relatives are all wary about the money her husband managed to accumulate and because they've said in very clipped words during the funeral that they want nothing to do with the deterioration of their own lineage. She asks for help from Sir William Fitzgerald regarding the correct method of dismantling the conglomerate raised by her husband, distributing the stocks' ownership amongst the remaining Economic Pillars.  
  
Most of them have enough honor and dignity to not swoop down like starving vultures; instead, the rest of the Economic Pillars have agreed to deal with the formal redistribution of wealth during the upcoming Economic Summit.  
  
Since the main mansion remains a crime scene and an unpleasant memory, she relocates her private laboratory underneath one of the more humble summer villas that they have, which incidentally becomes the only estate to remain under the Sterling name; she allows the online bidding platform to purchase all but two modest cars. Lessening the amount of estates and shrinking their involvement with most of the businesses prompts her to fire a good chunk of the household staff.  
  
In an odd sort of homage to her husband's memory, she keeps their family's involvement with the pharmaceutical industry; her husband's first foray into the business world was during his investment on a particularly controversial clinical trial that became an amazing intellectual success a couple of years ago.  
  
They have lost most of their wealth but it's still not enough of a loss to call it a descent to poverty.  
  
Paula still has her secretary and she still keeps her research notes painstakingly clean, ready for the moment when she's done with all of these unpleasant workloads.  
  
Aside from her and her most trusted aide, there are only three other people occupying their new home.  
  
She… doesn't call them her children, because they're really not. Calling them colleagues or business partners is way off though. Those three exist in a similar plane to hers, despite the huge age difference that does bring them closer to someone who could be her child.  
  
Eighteen years is an awfully long time.  
  
There's never been a moment in that absurdly lengthy timeframe that had anything that could even be barely called as sexual between her and her husband.  
  
The lack of intimacy has nothing to do with the unpleasant personality of her husband, nor does it have to do with his dwindling grasp on sanity during his last couple of years.  
  
It's only because of their mutual lack of interest.  
  
That's all.  
  
…That's why she can't call those three her children.  
  
Someone like her will never call anyone her child.  
  
It doesn't prevent her from sparing them from a life of getting excised from certain wealth. She keeps those three close to her, even if they would never be her children, even if they consider her as someone barely above the level of a stranger, even if they resent her a little for not being strong enough to handle the Sterling's wealth with the disappearance of their cunning head of the family.  
  
She sighs as she remembers their mutterings about doing the household chores themselves.  
  
It's not even two weeks and she feels tired enough to hate her entire being.  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, April 2—  
  
"Eeeeh, I'm super tired~"  
  
She looks at the pile of dirty plates and bowls. She looks away just as quickly, because the sight of the brown sauce and flecks of rice is enough to make her stomach protest. She looks down on her hands, no plastic gloves available today unfortunately, and thinks that this won't do at all. She can't allow her hands to be dirtied at all. She can't believe that her mother is evil enough to ask her to destroy her delicate hands just so these dishes will disappear.  
  
Why not just leave this to Marianne? Or even Arianne, if that bitch is going to complain about her eyes being blurry, for the hundredth time. Or if Arianne is going to whine about her nosebleed, then Abraham can definitely use some time away from her mother and help out with the chores, surely?  
  
Anyway, anyone will do.  
  
They all do nothing but hole themselves up inside the study anyway, discussing unimportant things like balance sheets or something.  
  
…Unlike her, who needs to go to the market every day to buy ordinary things.  
  
The last time that she talked to Marianne about her tiresome routine, that bitch only looked at her like she's the stupid one, before screeching something about actually buying more than a bag's worth of groceries to be more efficient or something ridiculous. She wanted to shake that idiot by her shoulders soooo badly; why would she want to do something unsightly as carrying more than one plastic bag at a time? She's already compromised enough by actually agreeing to be an errand girl, but they're taking too much advantage of her generosity.  
  
In any case, her job is important, unlike theirs.  
  
It doesn't make sense for her to do the dishes on top of shopping for groceries.  
  
Making up her mind on the spot, she dumps the sponge on her hand on top of one of the dirty dishes. She quickly rinses the soap from her hands, peeved at the way she can notice that her skin isn't as soft as it was before.  
  
She whirls around, eager to escape from this prison before anyone spots her and punishes her for refusing to be their dog.  
  
She whirls around—or at the very least, attempts to—and she trips, losing her balance before she can even get her bearings. She lands with a soft thud, thankfully missing one of the stools stationed near the kitchen counter. She glares at the thin slippers on her foot; her mother has sold a lot of her possessions and that included most of her branded shoes. Now she's stuck with this slipper that keeps on sabotaging her!  
  
She's more than just a little pissed off—and righteously so! She can't believe anybody could be as cruel as to deny her the simple pleasures in life. Everybody knows that every woman needs awesome shoes to carry her places and what does her mother do? The exact opposite, of course!  
  
She picks herself up from her spot on the floor, bravely fighting off the tears threatening to spill from her eyes and spoil her mascara. That would be super embarrassing. It would be the type of shame that will haunt her for the entire day and she doesn't want that. She painstakingly bends over and inspects the strands of her skirt for any dirt from that unsightly fall. Her hands are a little damp so she discreetly dries them on the edges of her skirt because apparently they're too poor for hand towels lying in wait at kitchen sinks. She wrinkles her nose at the reminder of the mess threatening to overwhelm her from a few feet away; it almost seems like the pile of dirty dishes is swaying like a dirty drunkard.  
  
Before it topples over and breaks into innumerable pieces that will be super difficult to clean up, she needs to be out of here!  
  
She checks her slippers one more time because there's no way she will tolerate falling to her knees when in public!  
  
That's just super unacceptable!  
  
She makes her way out of the kitchen and out of the house, her pace brisk but still with the ever-present natural jolt of energy with each skip of her feet, cheap slippers or not. She doesn't bother with brushing her hair before showing her face to the rest of the world, not only because she already spent two hours beforehand styling her hair, but also because she doesn't want to be too perfect for the bunch of commoners that will be gifted by her presence. Well sure, their family became poorer but that didn't mean she became uglier. If anything, hard work compliments her complexion fairly well since going out without sunblock aids her on obtaining that natural golden tan.  
  
She's going for the 'effortlessly beautiful' look and judging from the looks the passersby are shooting her, she achieved her goal surely. While there are monsters like that Helena Troy, and maybe Antoinette Snow if she stops being so old, someone like her who's just the right mix of perfection and attainability is the best. Everybody will just get bored of staring at the goddess-like beauty of the most beautiful woman in the world, but the one that everybody would love to keep would be someone like her. Everybody knows that being too beautiful is a curse.  
  
She doesn't mind that kind of curse, honestly, but it's a little disconcerting when someone stalks her out of sheer admiration. Her stalker for the day isn't a new admirer; she remembers seeing him before in the marketplace and maybe on the transport terminal too. There's only one main marketplace and one transport terminal in this area because of some government policy or something, but for her to be always trailed by that man who's not even that handsome is… disconcerting. She remembers watching some film like two years ago and it had some message about stalkers being dangerous but the only thing in danger here is her sense of pride in attracting worthwhile people. It's more than just a bit unfair that she's sharing her beauty to the world and what she gets in return are dirty dishes, flimsy slippers and ugly stalkers!  
  
Without paying too much attention to her surroundings, she manages to reach the marketplace brimming with people and produce. Flyers are being handed out for different sales and promos; banners and posters are being pasted on the visible parts of the buildings. The annual festival is more than a month away but its preparations have always been way ahead of time. After all, it's probably the only event that is undisputedly celebrated by the whole world without any complaints and cries about discrimination and irrelevance.  
  
She's normally energetic but there's no way she can go skipping around in this type of crowd and these flimsy slippers. She settles for walking slowly and letting the flow of the crowd dictate her direction. She's confident that her current stalker is trailing her still.  
  
…Why not let him make himself useful?  
  
She breaks away from the bulk of the crowd once she spots the familiar welcome sign of her favorite salon. She walks to the front steps and even knocks on the glass door to get the attention of the establishment's main hairdresser. She smiles and waves at the effeminate-looking man inside who only acknowledges her for a moment before turning back to his meal of potato chips and coffee. She pouts at the cold welcome but she'd be lying if she claims she's surprised by that kind of reception. Her favorite hairdresser has always been super antisocial.  
  
…But anyway.  
  
"Hey," she calls out to her stalker who pretends to look ahead despite having no reason to go to this salon aside from following her tracks, "you can talk to me, you know."  
  
She grins a little bit at the surprise that blooms on his face like a particularly bright fireworks display. Wide eyes, gaping mouth, soundless words. Her stalker's all that right now. Should she help him out a little bit?  
  
"Hey, there's no need to be shy," she replaces her amused grin with a friendly smile, "I don't bite~"  
  
"…How can I, huh, help you?"  
  
"I was hoping you could do something for me?" She flutters her eyelashes demurely. "You see, my slippers are super thin and I'm afraid they'll break…"  
  
"Huh? I don't even know—"  
  
He's still there, still rooted to the spot that can block business to her favorite salon if he keeps this up. What else does he need? Doesn't he have money? It's just her luck to attract a piss-poor stalker then. She turns back to the glass door and she waves to her favorite hairdresser again, who only rolls his eyes at her. She glances at her stalker—this time he intently stares at her favorite hairdresser, something burning in his gaze.  
  
Is he jealous?  
  
Wow, she's really good.  
  
She isn't in any way interested in forming a stronger relationship with her favorite hairdresser aside from the hairdresser-customer relationship, but even something like a friendly wave can be construed as flirting. She widens her smile just for the sake of her new stalker who is rudely glaring at her favorite hairdresser.  
  
She releases a pleased sigh when her stalker turns around and goes off towards the direction of the clothing stands. She's not worried that he'll get the wrong size; what's the use of having a stalker who doesn't know that kind of information?  
  
There's a certain shoe that she wants to get her hands on, but Craig's shop is known for super expensiveness; the newly-released collection of glass shoes is making itself infamous amongst the fashion-forward people. While there's nothing that could add doubt to the fact that she dresses really well, her family's current financial status makes it difficult for her to obtain the necessary products to make herself stand out even more amongst this pool of commoners.  
  
…But then again, Craig is her friend, isn't he?  
  
Surely he can make something happen to help her out?  
  
She isn't expecting anything extravagant from her new stalker though; she isn't friends with him, at least not yet. Maybe a little while later, maybe after a couple more offerings, maybe even never.  
  
It's great though that he's quick; she didn't even have time to examine the new additions to this portion of the marketplace. He's already there, with a pinched expression on his face, hardly a bead of sweat on his face, the newly purchased slippers all but shoved into her hands. She's about to make a comment about the constipated expression on his face, but she then peers a little more into the tense lines of his eyebrows and decides that he looks a little more handsome that way. Maybe there's really some truth into the stereotype of angry, bad-boy types being a lot more interesting than your average guy.  
  
"Thanks!" She chirps out, smiling with all of her white teeth displayed. She's been told that she looks charming like that: the epitome of girl-next-door beauty. "You're super awesome!"  
  
Her stalker is looking at her like he's expecting something. Oh my. Is he expecting her to fork over some sort of payment or something? Isn't that kind of taboo when you're courting someone? Stalking or no, isn't what he's doing courting? Surely a girl like her doesn't need to hand over something like payment when he's doing her favors? What is he expecting then?  
  
"Do you need me to pay you?" She asks, straightforward, because girls that are too demure are no good. There should be a certain balance between demureness and straightforwardness. She flutters her eyelashes as she asks though, because she doesn't have any extra money, no thanks to her stingy stepmother. But then again, she knows something that he wants more than monetary payment. She feels a little nauseous at the thought of using her body to pay, but she knows that's what her perverted stalker wants anyway. "I can pay you like this…"  
  
"T-There's no need," her stalker manages to blurt out quickly, as soon as she starts unbuttoning the top two buttons on her blouse while she sashays her body seductively while she mentally hums a little tune. She grins, because it's great that he still has some gentlemanly bone inside his stiff body. It's great that he stopped her from going for the third button and beyond, because she doesn't have any plans of giving a free show to him and to everyone else in the vicinity.  
  
"Thank you super very much!"  
  
He looks and sounds a little lost at her exclamation, "…Huh."  
  
"What's your name then, my prince?" She asks, because she needs to reward her stalker somehow. Accumulating good karma works wonders, after all.  
  
If possible, he looks even more confused by her question. Hmm, it's just her luck to attract stupid stalkers then?  
  
There's a long pause before he replies, almost as if he forgot his own name and is now trying to remember it.  
  
"It's… Bobby Fields."  
  
"Ooh, Bobby! It's such a beautiful name for such a wonderful man like you!" Well, it's a very, very plain name, appropriate enough for a commoner like him. Probably a million people share that name with her stalker. But she needs to butter him up because while she only managed to get him to do her very small bidding today, there's no telling when she'll need his help in the future.  
  
There's that blank look on his gaze, like he's overwhelmed on what to say or feel about her.  
  
That's great, isn't it?  
  
She's really good at this.  
  
"Anyway, I'll need to run some errands," well, yeah, there's even a troublesome list of things she needs to do, all thanks to her stepmother who doesn't understand the concept of pampering her kids and dumping all the work to their only one servant, but it's not like she's interested in finishing those tasks, "so I'll need to go, okay?"  
  
"…Huh? Okay?" He looks at her strangely, then at her favorite hairdresser from beyond the glass windows. "Go ahead?"  
  
"Awesome! Bye then~" She merrily skips away from her stalker, though she's partly expecting him to follow her still, just with more stealth this time.  
  
She contemplates dropping by Craig's workplace to do some window-shopping for their latest shoes and apparel, but that's just bound to frustrate her. She doesn't have the funds to purchase any one of the new collection, even if they're using her favorite theme. It's really super unfair.  
  
Maybe she can drop by to visit Teresa instead? Or maybe even Henry—but that might not be such a good idea, since Henry's also head over heels in love with her. If her dear stalker, what's-his-name-again?, decides to follow her, then it might get ugly. She's not interested in doing some referee work between two men fighting over her. They should settle their differences elsewhere, somewhere out of her sight, shouldn't they? They shouldn't give her any headaches if they want her to fall for them.  
  
Well, just to be safe, she'll visit Henry some other day. Maybe she can even convince him to help her carry some groceries! Okay, that's settled then! She'll go for slacking off at Teresa's place today instead.  
  
She's normally super considerate when it comes to meddling with her friends' work, but Teresa's place isn't doing too well with their business anyway. It's not like she'll hinder their work; if anything, her fabulous presence might even help with attracting more customers!  
  
With that thought in mind, she arrives at Teresa's shop: a small, nondescript door with an aged sign of MUNDER'S SHOP with the letters made of faint paint, mostly tucked away from view of the passersby. She remembers suggesting that they renew the paint on the sign, maybe advertise the shop with some flyers, or maybe even invest on some neon lighting to draw more customers towards their hidden away location. She doesn't really remember the exact words of rejection for her awesome suggestions, but it's obvious that the business is still failing.  
  
"Teresaaaaa~" She calls out loudly as she opens the door without knocking. The bell chimes like a brittle baby rattle. There's a thin sheet of dust on the windowsill. "Wow, it's still so gross inside here!"  
  
Teresa the Seamstress is hard at work on one of workstations at the far end of the shop, surrounded by bookcases filled with frayed books and yellowed papers. She looks startled by her presence, but anyone probably would be; Teresa always looks surprised each time someone drops by her establishment, which is hardly the best behavior one should present to potential customers. It's almost as if she's not expecting anyone to drop by and have something be sewn.  
  
While it's true that most of the population don't bother with getting their clothes done by anyone not under the influence of the main fashion giants, there should still be some commoners left that can't afford to use the services of flamingo, Valentine or [i], right?  
  
Anyway, Teresa still has that deer caught in headlights expression. It's always hilarious to see her like that, especially since she usually looks haggard and unaffected.  
  
"…Oh, it's just you, Dianne."  
  
She rolls her eyes; Teresa's her friend and all, but she could be so stupid sometimes!  
  
"Teresa, dear, this is Cinderella!" This always happens after the startled expression starts to fade away. Always. "I always tell you, whoever that Dianne is, I'm a thousand times prettier, okay?"  
  
Now the surprise is completely gone. Teresa stares at her, before mumbling her realization. "Oh, right. How are you doing, Cinderella?"  
  
She grins, because finally, Teresa's mind is back on track. She skips towards her sewing machine and peers at the strange designs on the tablecloth?-blanket?-flag?-whatever that Teresa's sewing at the moment. "I'm super! I met this new stalker, but he's great because he bought me a new pair of slippers and he's really quick too! He's kinda ugly and I can just feel that he's a pervert, but he has good taste at choosing slippers! Want to see, want to see?"  
  
She twirls around and doesn't bother to return the question to Teresa. Nothing exciting ever happens to her friend, anyway.  
  
Teresa stares at her again, but then she quickly hides the huge cut of black cloth that she's working on. That's great! Whatever she's working on can't be as important as her story anyway!  
  
But since she's a good friend, she waits until all of the black cloth is hidden away—is that a picture of a skull sewed on it? Whoa, that looks creepy and ugly—before she continues her story. "Paula, my stepmother, actually has a bunch of errands for me, but I'm like, hey why should I do that, what's the point of having our servant around? And then I went out of the house because I'd rather kill myself than touch those dishes without plastic gloves! Hey, now that I think about it, where did my gloves go? Anyway—"  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, May 14—  
  
Less than a month until this year's Economic Summit.  
  
There are still so many things that need to be done, a number of papers that need to be signed by an actual hand, a mountain of documents that need to be perused before she adds it to the pile that will be automatically stamped and sealed with the Sterling Family seal.  
  
How her previous husband managed to do all this and not get crazy, she isn't sure.  
  
…Well, judging from her ex-husband's weakness for spending a great portion of his time locked up in his own quarters, it's entirely possible that a wealth of depraved behavior has been going on and she's just not aware of any single bit of juicy scandal. She's pretty busy with her own research and her own brand of coping with the way the world works after all. They never bothered with each other. She sort of misses that kind of cold atmosphere; now every single thing she does is up for scrutiny and subsequent criticism. She understands that it's part of her life as a researcher, but the chores she's saddled with right now have nothing to do with pursuing knowledge—it's all about the money that she hates but needs, about publicity regarding projects that don't directly impact her life, about press releases that she never understands.  
  
She isn't meant for this kind of life.  
  
If she only knew that this is what would happen to her, she never would have agreed to marry Jonathan.  
  
The two of them had a great arrangement, based upon strict agreement upon their own terms.  
  
It's selfish, heartless even.  
  
She's selfish.  
  
She isn't meant to be a political nor economic figure.  
  
But nobody else wants anything to do with the declining Sterling Family.  
  
There isn't anybody else who could be placed behind the steering wheel of this sinking ship.  
  
"Of course, our company is still interested in continuing our support behind the Sterling Family's endeavors," the sharp lines of the man's suit don't translate to the soft, almost coaxing, tone that he uses to relay the words of the company he represents, "…we've had a… quite a long partnership, truth be told."  
  
At 32, Robert Fischer doesn't look like he's been working at a cutthroat environment for almost ten years now; with early opportunities granted to him even while still pursuing his degree, he's already one of the top choices when it comes negotiating and representing big-name companies that handle at least half of the world's total funds.  
  
…That information is courtesy of some last-minute surfing of some public databases, so it's highly likely that everything she knows about Robert Fischer is a lie.  
  
…Well, probably not the entire thing.  
  
Robert Fischer and his twin brother are rather popular, after all, so the expansive media coverage is sure to smooth over most of the inconsistencies. Of course, if there's something that he really wanted to hide, he should be able to do so with his sphere of influence, so it's not like she's going to find out about it, even after a year of digging.  
  
She smiles—or tries to, at least.  
  
Lately, there hasn't been anything worth smiling anymore. Not that she's all smiles when Jonathan was still alive, but life was better to her before. Back then, she could just focus on her own work, without having to think about staying within the budget, without skimping on luxuries, without following up on murder investigations, without meeting with slick businessmen about the money flows and the thousands of lives that could be ruined by one wrong decision.  
  
"…That's great to hear, Mr. Fischer." She tries to sound as sincere as she possibly can. She is grateful, honestly, because there's no telling what kind of migraine she'll suffer from in case another one of their associates backs out from their cooperative business arrangement. "…Then, can we move on to discuss your company's part for the upcoming Economic Summit?"  
  
"Before we discuss the slide shows for the Economic Summit – oh, don't worry Ms. Sterling, we'll get back to that in a short while – I'd love to discuss something else first." With graceful flourish, Robert Fischer takes out a small leather-bound booklet that smells like newly-printed bills. Using actual paper money for transactions is reminiscent of the old ages, which is a bit surprising, knowing that the other's company is a huge proponent for technological advancements. "Since the departure of some of our previous… associates, our company has decided to extend our support to the Sterling Family even further, by picking up their slack, in a way."  
  
Even with her insufficient experience when it comes to handling these matters, she instinctively knows that the help that they're offering is invaluable—…almost too good to be true, if she thinks further about it. But there's nothing that their company would gain from spending more money in investing on them? They'd probably get some flattering publicity from their charitable actions, but is it really worth the millions that they'd have to shell out? It's not like they're going to buy stocks or ownership of the Sterling Family, so there's no danger of them invading their company from the inside. She attempts to think about other plausible scenarios, but her mind isn't made for this; she can't think of other possibilities aside from the prospect of being burdened with less work because of their help.  
  
"…That would be most wonderful," she says with great feeling, worrying her bottom lip. Inexperienced as she may be regarding these dealings, she knows enough to not let her complete enthusiasm show so easily. She needs to keep some cards hidden, even if she has no idea what kind of cards she possesses. "Perhaps we could separately draft some primary agreements and then we could meet once more so we could compare, contrast, and of course combine the good parts."  
  
"We could do it right now, don't you feel?"  
  
…Right now?  
  
…But she needs to study the terms that she's going to be using, because there's always danger when it comes to the fine print! She can't focus on making such an important document with someone in the same room! This is why she prefers working in her underground laboratory; there's no such thing as unpleasant surprises there.  
  
"I feel the contract would be more… cohesive if we have enough time to think about the terms."  
  
…Black eyes like rare onyx marbles.  
  
Robert Fischer is looking right at her and she can't breathe.  
  
Is this some type of sorcery?  
  
Breathing is an involuntary action.  
  
She shouldn't have to think about breathing in and out.  
  
Is he glaring at her?  
  
No, he's just staring right at her.  
  
She needs to clear this strange atmosphere. "…Don't you agree?"  
  
"…I understand. Will two days do? I could return here with our contract drafted, and then we can continue about discussing our company's contributions on the Sterling presentation for the Economic Summit."  
  
Wait—  
  
She needs to settle the details for the presentation as soon as possible!  
  
There's a deadline!  
  
She can't—  
  
But Robert Fischer is already making his way towards the doors, briefcase filled with important papers in his hand, thick coat making his shoulders wider and colder from afar.  
  
She needs to stop him!  
  
She can't do the contract today nevertheless, but there must be a way—  
  
"…Well, isn't this a surprise."  
  
Robert Fischer doesn't sound surprised, not even the littlest bit.  
  
She takes brisk steps towards the doorway and she immediately regrets doing so. She spots Dianne sprawled gracelessly on the floor, and the teen doesn't even have the common sense to look ashamed from being caught eavesdropping. Thankfully, the long, gaudy skirt effectively covers most of her legs—at least the disgrace is lessened and she doesn't even want to consider the amount of shame they would earn if Dianne also ended up flashing their guest.  
  
"This must be one of your… children."  
  
"They're… not really my children." Robert Fischer knows that there are no biological heirs to the Sterling Family line. "But yes, this one is Dianne Sterling."  
  
Unlike Marianne and Arianne, Dianne is a very problematic child; that's one of the main reasons why she isn't very thrilled to introduce her to their family's associates. She's already expecting a giant headache from this encounter, and Dianne doesn't disappoint.  
  
"I'm not Dianne! My gosh! How many times should I tell you? I'm Cinderella!"  
  
Robert Fischer's calm expression is eerily natural, almost as if he's very experienced when it comes to dealing with these types of delusional teenagers.  
  
"…My apologies, Mademoiselle Cinderella. In any case, I'll need to take my leave, so do you mind if I go on ahead?"  
  
Dianne's irritation at being called by her name fades away completely as someone actually entertains her delusions. "…Of course, of course, my good knight! You have my permission to go forth!"  
  
She refrains from rolling her eyes at the illogical turn of events, completely spent and helpless to stop Robert Fischer from leaving, even without Dianne's unwanted interlude.  
  
It's only been two months since Jonathan's death.  
  
The thought that this is simply the beginning of all the messy hardships she's bound to go through makes her weak in the knees.  
  
But it's not like she can revolt against this kind of fate, can she?  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, June 10—  
  
There's some sort of masquerade party today and they dare to leave her behind?!  
  
They probably were hoping to keep it hidden from her until the end of the actual party, when they would casually call her and let her know that they're sorry for forgetting and can she forgive them, pretty please?  
  
No way!  
  
That's definitely not going to happen!  
  
Well, the first part has already transpired—yes, she can use that word, isn't that awesome—and what she wants to remedy is the fact that she's super unprepared for attending the party in the castle. Her beauty's more than enough to twist some heads around, but she isn't very down with the idea of going there naked. That's giving way too many people some sort of bonus that they don't deserve! Plus, fancy masquerade balls need equally fancy dresses! Everybody knows that! That's one of the main rules of nobility, after all.  
  
…Anyway, just like an extravagant welcome entourage for some awards celebration, the television in their house is merrily broadcasting every unwanted detail of how much the participants are looking forward to attending the party. Unfortunately for her eyes, the dresses that the participants are wearing fall strictly on the ugly end of the scale, as if there's a conspiracy to inspire as much irritation as possible. How could they even think that wearing business suits is appropriate to attend a masquerade ball?!  
  
But then again, the participants' gross fashion sense is just one of the event's big problems.  
  
After all, who is crazy enough to call a party 'Economic Summit' anyway? That's like, the most boring name ever! Don't they have any creativity? Like, Super Masquerade or maybe Midnight Butterfly or maybe even A Ball to Remember? There are a lot of choices when it comes to naming an event like this, and they go for something so totally unfitting.  
  
…Or maybe this is all just a ploy to discourage her from joining in?  
  
She has to admit, her opponents really understand the way her mind works.  
  
They know that she will be angry to see such a failure of a masquerade ball.  
  
But they underestimate her determination to exercise her right to participate in that party.  
  
Her wicked stepmother idiotically ran out of the house at some ungodly time this morning, interrupting her beauty sleep, without so much as a goodbye to her. Her two sheep stepsisters followed their mother's form—she didn't see them actually do the act of trailing after her stepmother like some unsightly goldfish poop, but she's smart enough to know that her stepsisters experience mini-heart attacks whenever they're not within their mother's sphere of influence.  
  
…Hello, pathetic, much?  
  
Anyway, the wicked stepmother went out like a hurricane, dropping some things here and there, and in her excitement to attend the ball without alerting her of her diabolical plans, she forgot to attempt to pretty herself up. Laughably, her stepmother even forgot to carry anything else aside from the unfashionable briefcase-like shoulder bag. She feels secondhand shame just from knowing that her stepmother is crazy enough to attend a fancy ball while lugging around some bulky bag filled with unimportant garbage.  
  
But hey, isn't that just fine?  
  
While they're all there schmoozing with random people, she's going to stay put here, waiting for her fairy godmother.  
  
During the days when she was still naïve enough to trust her stepmother, she shared the presence of her fairy godmother that helps her out whenever she encounters any trouble. Her life has been hectic since childhood, but thanks to her fairy godmother's support, she was able to continue living while keeping her face forward! She can still remember the first time she was troubled by the two equally heavy plastic bags filled with groceries; it was thanks to her fairy godmother's brilliant suggestion that she was able to realize that a princess like her isn't meant for carrying two bags alone! It was also the day when she decided to simply leave one of the bags, effectively halving her burden; it was a practice that she continues to use even up until now. Of course, there are heathens who disagree with her fairy godmother's wisdom, but they don't matter at all. They're just jealous they don't have their own savior from their own hell. They would never have such a blessing to their lives, because they're not princesses and even if they were, they certainly don't deserve it still. They're not her after all. They're not Cinderella.  
  
…Anyway.  
  
The wicked witch of a stepmother looked horrified to hear her awareness of her very own fairy godmother. She can still remember that scene clearly, because it was immediately followed by a lot of frantic yelling and pulling and she was brought to a funny-smelling room that looks like it's from some hospital. She can still remember how the wicked witch was adamant in making sure that she drank a couple of pills.  
  
She can still remember how she only fake-swallowed the pills.  
  
Like she's stupid enough to follow the instructions of suspicious characters!  
  
Her fairy godmother warned her of jealous idiots who will want to poison her.  
  
…Anyway.  
  
She's going to wait for her fairy godmother in this house.  
  
But maybe while waiting, she can already find a dress?  
  
There's nothing wrong with being prepared, is there?  
  
She remembers seeing one of her fat and ugly stepsisters hide a fancy, rainbow-colored dress. Well, if they think they can hide something so precious like that from her eyes, then they're wrong! She's very good at sniffing those kinds of treasures out, almost as if she has some built-in radar for fancy and fashionable things.  
  
Her ugly stepsister will probably squeal like some butchered pig when she finds out that the rainbow-colored dress has been unearthed. Well, that suits her just fine; a colorful, bare-back dress that shows off a lot of skin doesn't suit someone fat like her. Of course, talks of matching dresses don't really apply to princesses like her, because everything is created for her sake. There's no such thing in this entire world that can lessen her beauty. Even random specks of dirt and dust look beautiful once they're on her skin. That's how great she is.  
  
Her fairy godmother is taking an awfully long time to arrive, but maybe this is one of those tests that herald her official entry to adulthood?  
  
She's being tested!  
  
Her fairy godmother is probably watching this from secluded corner on the ceiling.  
  
She's supposed to go through this ordeal alone then.  
  
So the matters of acquiring her own attire, make-up and carriage are all up to her.  
  
It's going to be difficult, but she's capable.  
  
Princesses like her don't really need to learn how to do the mundane, common things, but she supposes that these types of tests are never fair that way. This is probably going to be last time she's ever going to hunt for her own pair of shoes and carriage, so she needs to make this count.  
  
The rainbow-colored dress looks awesome on her, draping over her natural, feminine curves like scented oil rolling over supple skin.  
  
…But she's getting distracted.  
  
With the problem for her dress solved, she needs to worry about the perfect pair of shoes next.  
  
Of course, there's only one thing that comes to her mind when she thinks about wearing drool-worthy shoes. It might not be so new now, since it's been two months, but the latest full collection from Valentine is still the stuff dreams are made of. Wearing glass shoes while looking utterly fabulous just isn't for everyone, she's aware. Only the really pretty ones with the smoothest skin can successfully pull it off, not to mention that there's always the scary thought of going through the ordeal while harboring pained feet.  
  
She's prepared to endure calluses if it means arriving fashionably late while her feet are encased in the legendary shoes meant for princesses.  
  
…but then again, she also didn't forget to pocket a small bottle of scented lotion, to make the whole 'wriggling-her-feet-inside-the-hard-shoes' process a little more bearable.  
  
…Even if it's been two months since its release, those to-die-for glass shoes are still hellishly expensive.  
  
Is Craig on duty today?  
  
Maybe she can ask him to sneak out the pair of shoes?  
  
He's her dear friend, isn't he?  
  
Shouldn't he do that for her?  
  
She finds herself in front of Craig's shop and she finds herself repeating her solid argument about how friends should help each other out in times of need. Craig looks surprised at her request, or maybe he's just awestruck by her presence? Of course, she knows that she hardly looks like the irresistible goddess that she is right now—she's wearing some old pair of wedges that makes her wobble dangerously, and her hair is still doing its own somersault of whipping here and there according to the wind gusting right now. Well, she's still sexy and beautiful, but to think that this is all Craig needs to see to look dumbstruck like that!  
  
She's such a bad girl, isn't she?  
  
She's here, all dolled up, without any intention of stealing all these men's hearts, but she goes ahead and does it anyway!  
  
It's a super depressing thing, to break their hearts as gently as she can, so maybe she can leave that for later?  
  
Friends don't break the hearts of their fellow friends, right?  
  
Plus, maybe this can be useful.  
  
If Craig really loves her, then he should definitely do this for her, right?  
  
"I'll be super nice to you, I promise," she wheedles, enthusiastically draping herself all over Craig's arm. For insurance, she makes sure to press her breasts against his arm too, as she attempts to snuggle into his arms in broad daylight. It's a good thing he's the only one in the shop right now, since it's past the shop's absurdly early closing time, because this sight is sure to make others jealous. She might end up acquiring more admirers and that's not good, right? She can barely keep track of all her suitors right now!  
  
Her ear is pressed against his shoulder so she doesn't really hear his flustered reply, much less understand him. She rubs her cheek against his sleeve leisurely, but in reality, she's starting to panic just a little bit. She isn't worried about having to shower her friend with more superficial affection, because that's part of being a princess. No, what's she's worried about is the fact that time is running out. She's more than happy to be granted a chance to have a grand entrance while being fashionably late, but there's no point if she arrives only at the wrap-up portion of the party. Nobody will be awed by her presence if they're all tired and drunk. Well, they probably will still be drooling in their seats, but she'll have no way of knowing if they're salivating because of the alcohol or because of her presence.  
  
Craig says something else again and she feels the rumble of his chest at this close distance. He carefully and gently sets her aside and asks her to stay put and he's just going to get something inside and isn't that sweet? Completely unnecessary though, because all she actually needs at the moment are those shoes. After she gets that, they could probably set up a date for next week, but that's that. She needs to get those shoes or else she has nothing to show for her fairy godmother.  
  
What should she do then?  
  
She faintly hears Craig's voice from the other room; he seems to be speaking with someone in hushed tones. Maybe he's trying to apply a little encouragement to himself? Or maybe he's trying to calm himself down from being all excited just from having a beautiful lady flirting with him?  
  
…Well.  
  
Craig is in love with her, so he'll surely understand, right?  
  
She spots the glass shoes she's been fantasizing about since day one.  
  
An immobile marionette is wearing them, but it's not like a doll will miss wearing shoes that don't look good on it.  
  
Everybody will be happier if someone like her is the one parading these shoes around and isn't she nice enough to do everyone a favor?  
  
…Wow.  
  
The glass shoes feel amazing against her hand. They're a little cold, but that's okay. They're also hard, but that's expected. They're more than just beautiful and they'll look even more amazing when they're already on their rightful place.  
  
…She needs to leave now though.  
  
Craig will surely try to stop her.  
  
Maybe he'll even try to sneak in a hug or maybe a kiss, once he sees her twirling around with her new glass shoes.  
  
She accepts any and all sort of appreciative affection, but now isn't the time for such silliness.  
  
She needs to get out of here so she can move on to obtaining the final piece of accessory she requires.  
  
She resists the urge to congratulate herself for her foresight in befriending Henry, because he'll be a great help in lending her one of his company's carriages.  
  
As she practically glides away from Craig's shop silently, she hears him frantically shouting after her. He sounds a little too desperate, but she's learning to not underestimate her own charms. She agrees that losing her presence is tragedy, but she feels a little sorry for Craig's brave and courageous attempts at getting her back.  
  
"—Thief!"  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh.  
  
He's such a doll, isn't he?  
  
It's true that she kind of stole his heart away, but to hear the actual words coming from him!  
  
It's kind of sweet and amazing and she shouldn't be so easily touched like this, but she likes him a little more now.  
  
Not enough to abandon her goal of attending the masquerade ball, but enough to not feel annoyed at hearing him shout futilely after her retreating form.  
  
She wants to whirl around and yell back that she didn't mean to steal his heart, but that's going to delay her even further.  
  
Maybe tomorrow, she'll drop a visit by this place again.  
  
But right now, what's super important is that she manages to make her way to Henry's place so she can sweetly ask him for one of the fancy carriages that they have.  
  
Most of their carriages are long, sleek, and all shiny-black—they're all a little gloomy-looking, but midnight black looks great when contrasted against her rainbow-colored dress and crystal-clear shoes.  
  
There are brief flashes of something while she's making her way towards Henry's place, almost as if there's someone stalking her, following her every move. She's sort of used to that kind of paparazzi-treatment, so she ignores it for the most part. Time flies by quickly and before she can even get annoyed at how late she's going to be, she's already there, in front of the huge garage that shields away the extravagant carriages that Henry works with.  
  
"Oh, Henry!" She calls out with a swoon, because there's just something hot and interesting about a man surrounded by so many wonderful cars, just as the masculine scent of leather and oil make her knees wobble at both the thought of getting rid of possible stains on her dress and also at the thought of finally, finally sitting down on one of the plush carriages that will bring her to her masquerade ball.  
  
Henry doesn't look surprised to see her, as expected of her number one fan, but he does look a little out of breath, like he ran a marathon. She isn't terribly keen on discovering the reason for his ragged breathing, but she does appreciate the sight of his muscles rippling underneath his tight shirt. Her suitors really do come from all over the spectrum, don't they? She's undoubtedly fonder of the prim-and-proper elegant types, but it doesn't hurt to have an admirer that fits the typical bad boy image either.  
  
"Right, is, that, you, Dianne?"  
  
"Oh, you're such a joker!" She demurs, while she suspiciously eyes the darker spot on his shirt. She needs to be careful when flirting with him right now, since she can't afford to sidle up to someone dripping with sweat. "Of course it's me, Cinderella!"  
  
"Oh, right, Cinderella!" Henry recovers from that elementary mistake quickly, smiling brightly at her like she's the center of his universe. "Sorry, sorry, I always, get confused, yes? Dianne is famous, for being, insanely beautiful, but you're, better, yes?"  
  
"Of course I'm more beautiful than whoever she is!"  
  
"Well, you, won't visit me, unless, you, have a reason, yes?"  
  
She ponders about spending a minute to soothe Henry's feelings, because he must be bitter at not being visited for more than two weeks now. It's not like she's avoiding him, but lately, she's been receiving more and more fan letters and Bobby is showing his face more often too. It's not like her heart's getting swayed to one direction, towards one person, because they're all her lovely suitors who will do her bidding, but nobody is boyfriend material amongst them. She's saving herself for the Prince that's surely meant for her, that's why she can't return their affections completely. Flirting is an entirely different matter though, but she'll get to that some other time, since the thought of clinging to him while he's all sticky with sweat makes her stomach do funny flip-flops that will inevitably end up with her being nauseated.  
  
Her outfit is too precious to be tainted by human grime, after all.  
  
"Well, Henry, you know that you're the number one in my heart, right?" She starts, fiddling demurely with some of the wayward ruffles from her dress. She flutters her eyelashes at appropriate intervals, making sure to look like a yearning lamb the entire time. She knows what Henry likes to see from her, so she works on appearing as dainty and loveable as she can, switching on her charms to the maximum limit. She sucks in her stomach to make her chest stand out more; she usually just prefers to shove her breasts against her suitor's arms to sway him to her request, but she isn't going to do that now. Sweat, eww.  
  
She smiles as Henry stammers out a reply that has way too many pauses to be natural. Well, she's kind of expecting that from Henry, because he's super in love with her.  
  
"Well, can you be my knight in shining armor tonight?"  
  
She gestures with one hand towards the longest carriage she could spot, hoping that Henry is smart enough to understand the hint. She needs the carriage but she needs someone to be her chauffeur too. Her wonderful stalker, Bobby, will probably be more than happy to volunteer for that role, but she doesn't have enough time to wait for him to show himself. She needs this done as soon as possible, because she can hear the masquerade ball yearning for her presence to spice things up.  
  
There are some sirens in the background and she's impressed with their impeccable timing to provide a wonderful soundtrack to this moment where Henry agrees to drive her towards the dumbly-named Economic Summit masquerade party.  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, June 10—  
  
…What the flying fuck did just happen?  
  
"Are you alright?" He asks sweetly on the outside, even while he's boiling with anger deep inside. There's a crazy bitch that just literally crashed against him, all while squealing about fate and about masquerades and who knows what kind of garbage. While it's undeniable that he's bored beyond his skull with all these discussions about money and more money – as usual – he isn't really looking forward to handling a pinch of unwanted excitement and turmoil. Shit, the crazy bitch isn't responding, even if she's clearly still alive, what with the way she's clawing like a harpy on his shirt buttons. "Mademoiselle, are you alright?"  
  
"Thank you very much, my Prince," she finally says and it sounds so fucking stupid and ridiculously rehearsed in front of some mirror at some creepy bedroom somewhere. Judging from how bright her eyes are, almost like she's high on some cheap shit, he doesn't discount the idea that the line really was rehearsed a thousand times.  
  
He places his – thankfully – gloved hands over her bared shoulders from where her gaudy, flimsy dress got skewed, pushing her gently away from his shirt buttons. He makes sure not to shove her away like some unpleasant voodoo doll, not because he's a gentleman at heart, but because there are countless people inside this very room who are all watching him one way or another. The media is stupidly lazy too, but ambitious, with how they installed a fuckton of cameras and recorders at every possible crevice they could find, so that they could dish out their annual compilation of Hidden Moments of the Economic Summit 3672.  
  
"You're very much welcome," he says warmly and carefully, while keeping her at a safe distance. He has firsthand information about how insanity isn't communicable by air, but this bitch doesn't seem to be infected by just the regular, run-of-the-mill brand of crazy. Her eyes are too unfocused, her breathing too uneven and her tone too dreamy for this to be just a one-time thing. It almost sounds as if she's lived her entire life inside her own shell of delusion. He isn't an expert when it comes to human psychology – how could anyone expect that from someone like him – but he can understand madness very well. This pathetic trash isn't mad, just filthy.  
  
"Shall we dance, my Prince?" She asks while swaying forward like a limp ragdoll, but there's a certain amount of intent with her motion. He frowns as he realizes that she's trying to dry hump him in the middle of the lounge area of the Economic Summit. He avoids scandals like the plague and the media secretly loathes him for robbing them of their golden scoop even if they publicly tout him as a brilliant role model for today's youth because of his clean record; unwanted sexual advances in plain sight for everyone is a clear-cut case for harassment, but the media and the bitches of the world would drum this issue up for as long as possible and they would try to flip this on him and make excuses for the crazy girl. He'll probably end up as the one reported for unwanted sexual harassment, how stupid is that?  
  
He isn't interested in women, much less these crazy types.  
  
"Isn't that moving too fast?" He tries to steer the two of them near the exit doors, not because he'd like to escape – not that he can, not now when the world is watching – but because one of his blubbering assistants are there. He needs to get someone useful to help him out here, maybe even take away this crazy bitch on a straightjacket and send her off to some secluded area. Of course, he needs to have one of his subordinates check if this – wait, fuck, did this bitch just try to rub her breasts against him, what the shit – crazy slut is a member of some important family or if she's part of one of the representative organizations. There's very little chance that she's anyone important because he knows all the important people, but crazier things have happened. "Maybe we should spend some time talking first, so that we can get to know each other better."  
  
He has no such intention, but he needs to buy time.  
  
Crazy slut seems to be eating up his words anyway, so it's not like he has to try too hard for believability.  
  
This day is just getting worse every passing second.  
  
By this time, the Economic Summit is usually already at its halfway stage, but thanks to the numerous issues earlier that range from very alarming to questionably relevant, it has barely started.  
  
His assistant passed him a note that had the summary of the day's breaking news; he couldn't remember anything aside from two. The first news is about one of the branch shops of Valentine being robbed – that news is hardly important, because Valentine isn't that great of a brand and it's just a branch store and they should just get over it. The second news is a lot more important, since Carlo Torres is now apparently dead. It wouldn't be surprising if Torres died while walking or doing something mundane – the man is ancient and looks like a giant mountain of wrinkles and moles. But the old man's death is because of multiple gunshot wounds, according to the initial, confidential, coroner's report.  
  
The Torres Family isn't a Pillar nor it is a huge business empire, but it's rather powerful – more so if compared against the average family of an average world. That isn't enough of a reason why the news is relevant to him though. It's more because of the fact that the kill is being pinned on the elusive Sterling Moonlight Killer – pfft, they really do name them creatively and needlessly fancily – coupled with yet another fact that Carlo Torres was assassinated while he was on his way to attend this suddenly-not-too-safe-anymore Economic Summit.  
  
Aside from those headache-inducing headlines, Heinrich is being an enormous pain in the ass and now he needs to deal with a crazy girl clinging to him like a bloodthirsty leech.  
  
…Not that Heinrich is particularly helpful even on his better moods.  
  
In any case, he needs to handle this situation delicately.  
  
He continues to steer the two of them towards where he last spotted his assistant – and by fuck, if he doesn't find any one of his subordinates within the next five minutes, he's going to fire them all, reputation be damned. Heinrich is nowhere to be seen – as usual – but even his presence is more preferable than this particular brand of suffering. He pastes a permanent expression of gentle happiness on his face even as he's mentally cringing as the crazy bitch starts to stutter random crap that mean shit to his ears.  
  
He keeps his eyes peeled for the sight of his subordinates – not just because he's starting to feel a bit desperate – but also because the sight of this slut's cleavage nearly spilling out of her gaudy, frilly, rainbow-colored sundress isn't appealing at all. As though that's not enough to burn his eyeballs forever, the bitch's feet are sparkling unnecessarily – damn, those are glass shoes, right, who the hell invented that kind of ridiculous fashion style – like one of the crystal statues near the main entrance. There's something important that he needs to associate with glass shoes, but his mind draws a blank after he gets a glimpse of those flashy accessories.  
  
"Hey," he calls out to the first familiar face that he spots, curbing the urge to attach a swearword to his sentences, "can you help me out a little bit here?"  
  
His subordinate – secretary, right – bows down low enough to damage her back. He doesn't listen to her first few words because they're just useless rituals of laughable respect and ass-kissing. He can't help but notice that her face looks as though she got bitten by a nasty insect with how red her cheeks are. That's just excessive make-up, he knows, but it's still an eyesore. But that doesn't matter much right now, because as far as he's concerned this secretary is going to make his life easier.  
  
"I'll need you to get information about our lovely darling here," and years of experience is truly helpful in making sure that the nausea that he feels from his words don't translate to a constipated expression on his face, "and I'll need it within five minutes."  
  
He doesn't wait for her hurried exclamations about looking forward to perform her duties, because that's wasting even more of his time. The friendly smile is still etched on his face, but he knows that he doesn't need to clarify that if he doesn't get what he wants within the allotted timeframe, there's going to be some massive reshuffling amongst the family employees. He actually doesn't mind having no lackeys trailing him around – he's more used to life without those nuisances – but his status dictates the necessity of having a bunch of useless people at his beck and call.    
  
To prevent the crazy bitch from running amok and causing more headaches, he places one hand against her back, near her nape so that he can swiftly incapacitate her in the worst-case scenario. Plus, with this kind of closeness, it almost seems as if he's entertaining one of his admirers and isn't that just lovely? He wins either way – if she defies logic by being someone fairly important, then he's being close to someone influential; if she's just some commoner who pulled some strings to be admitted here, then he's a prince who doesn't let social classes be a barrier to mingling with people.  
  
His secretary – he can't ever remember unimportant names, but he feels a brief moment of gratefulness nevertheless, even if it's toward some nameless member of the staff – returns in record time. Judging from the pleased curve to her smile, she has the information that he needs. Maybe the idiots trailing him around aren't so useless after all.  
  
"Sir Karl, this lady here is Ms. Dianne Sterling."  
  
"My name isn't Dianne—"  
  
He moves his hand from her back to curl around her bare shoulders and he's again infinitely glad about the fact that he's wearing gloves. He lets his hand press soothing circles against the crazy bitch's shoulders in an effort to shut her up. He isn't in the mood to listen to more awful monologues, so he motions with his free hand for his secretary to proceed.  
  
"…She's one of Ms. Paula Sterling's adopted daughters."  
  
Oh.  
  
The Sterling Family is at rock bottom right now, but of course that's just within the Six Economic Pillars.  
  
Heinrich said something about being slightly interested in Paula Sterling so maybe sending off this crazy bitch to some faraway mental hospital isn't such a hot idea.  
  
So this crazy bitch is somewhere between 'important' and 'utter trash', at least when it comes to social standing. She's adopted – wait, isn't Jonathan rather infamous for those gossips about being fucking sterile – but even without the actual Sterling blood running through her veins, she's still considered as a member of the Sterling Family.  
  
…Damn, isn't Jonathan Sterling the very first victim for the Sterling Moonlight Case?  
  
The case just started a couple of months ago but this girl doesn't even look she mourned her adopted father's loss at all. It isn't his place to judge how one person handled their grief, but it still doesn't look too good when the rest of the family continues to parade in dull, all-black clothes while one troublemaker is wearing neon-bright outfit that's enough to make him want to gouge his own eyes out.  
  
"Sir Karl Gates!"  
      
He feels the brat's shoulders stiffen then tremble pathetically underneath his gloved fingers. Speaking of the mourning family, he spots Paula Sterling flanked by the remaining members of the ruined Sterling Family. She's briskly walking towards him and he's just glad that he can shove this worthless human being beside him back to her designated place.  
  
Paula Sterling actually bows down to him once she arrives within comfortable earshot, her bow comparable to how his secretary bowed down like an idiot earlier. He makes sure to look appropriately embarrassed by the display of subservience, even if he knows that it's within expectations. After all, he's the only heir to the top-ranked family within the Six Economic Pillars.  
  
He wonders if Heinrich is watching this spectacle from his hiding place, just as he wonders if the bloodhounds of the media are listening attentively to what should be a private conversation between two VIPs.  
  
"My sincerest condolences about your loss," he replaces the smile on his face with a frown that conveys deep sadness even if he doesn't really have any sort of important interaction with Jonathan when he was still alive. He lets the smile slowly return to his face as he addresses the mini-entourage, "I'm glad to see that you're all well, despite the difficulties that you've experienced. If there's any way that our family can assist you in this time of need, please feel free to let us know."  
  
He doesn't mean those words at all – well, they're welcome to send SOS signals, but he's not going to do anything about it. His dearly beloved parents probably will – they won't let golden opportunities like that pass. Plus, it's not like he's the head of the family now – those kinds of schmoozing responsibilities can wait until much later.  
  
Paula Sterling's head remains slightly downcast, so he can't see her expression clearly. It's rather unfair, but he has greater expectations from her, since she's someone that managed to catch Heinrich's eye. She doesn't say anything though, aside from thanking him for his kindness and for returning her wayward adopted daughter back to her. He watches the way the little brat struggles like an insane harlot, while screeching about evil stepmothers and ugly stepsisters. He takes a couple of steps away from the commotion, because nothing good will arise from being associated with that circus.  
  
With the way all these problems are appearing one after another, he can't help but think that someone is orchestrating these disasters. It's possible that it's someone influential from the media; reporters are notoriously greedy for breaking news and groundbreaking scoops. News channels are currently filled to the brim with reports flooding in from every corner of the globe.  
  
…Even if his pet theory turns out to be true, he doesn't have any intent of putting a stop to such wrongdoings. Not only is it not his place – what the fuck are the police for if not for that type of problem – but he also, quite frankly, doesn't give a shit about other people's lives getting ruined because of some overzealous reporter. As long as the headaches don't extend to his everyday life, they could all just drop dead for all he cares.  
  
"How could you separate me from my Prince?!" Wailing like a shameless banshee, the crazy bitch struggles against the other two adopted daughters that are steering her away from the rest of the forming crowd. "I still have to dance with him!"  
  
…What the fuck is she saying?  
  
He isn't terribly interested in finding out though, so he bids farewell to Paula Sterling with a casual wave, before he – unnecessarily – gestures for his secretary to follow him.  
  
Ugh, he can just feel it already.  
  
This year's Economic Summit is going to be one hell of a headache.  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, June 10—  
  
There's only fifteen minutes and thirty-five seconds left until the stroke of midnight.  
  
Despite the incredibly expensive fee he had to shell out to one of his contacts, he has no regrets about buying the complete real-time footage of the gateway to the United Nations Tower Entrance. The location itself is comparable to the Gates Family's main estate when it comes to sheer size, but every single person that needs to leave the premises pass through that one gateway. It's perfect for spying purposes, especially since he doesn't have enough time to observe every person he's in charge of.  
  
He doesn't need to look at the clock to verify that there's only fourteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds left until the mandatory curfew imposed by the United Nations itself.  
  
By this time, there are less than ten people in the vicinity of the annual host to the Economic Summit – most of them are security guards and overworked staff. The VIPs have already left more than an hour and fifteen minutes ago, because nobody wants to stay near such a troublesome place longer than strictly necessary. Nobody wants to make the headlines without any dignity or shame after getting caught of disobeying one of the world's rare, but ironclad rules. He's hardly what one could call a 'youth' without a sarcastic snigger or two, but even he isn't old enough to remember a time when there wasn't anything as controlling as curfew ruling the world's nightlife.  
  
With thirteen minutes and forty-four seconds left on the silent countdown that just comes naturally to him, he tries to finish up the backlog of the reports that he needs to send out by tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp.  
  
Today, Carlo Torres was brutally murdered while he was on his way towards the Economic Summit. The police are quick to seal the crime scene with yellow tape criss-crossed all over the entire block where the limousine stopped moving and instead got transformed into an inelegant coffin. While the annual Economic Summit is taking place inside the spacious auditorium of the United Nations Tower, the evening news is filled with eyewitness statements, illogical sophism about how this is all part of some grand plan to purge the evil of the world, and replays of the reports from the Sterling Moonlight Case's beginnings. Somehow, the police hypothesis that this is done by the same killer as Jonathan Sterling's has been audaciously leaked to the media – either as a play to lure out the killer, or maybe simply as a ploy to up the ratings.  
  
Twelve minutes and two seconds until the streets are filled with patrols from the one special unit that is exempted from the strict curfew.  
  
He remembers watching Vladimir Snow stride into the entrance of the UN Tower as though he owns the place – with enough confidence in his stance that one can almost forget that he missed the previous summit because of some disease. He remembers noting how the Snow Family head's complexion is the same sickly pale as before. He draws a red X over Antoinette Snow's name and face on the guest list, because the supermodel didn't show herself to the masses today. The official press release mentioned something about a chronic disease, but that just sounds like a convenient excuse for any sort of disappearances. Bianca Snow's absence isn't anything worth writing home about though – the young heiress has always been segregated away from the rest of the world, either due to some misguided parenting tactic or due to the burning desire to bury any unpleasant things.  
  
Still eleven minutes and sixteen seconds left before the patrols will deem any violators as eligible for possible criminal sanction.  
  
He finishes up the notes about how Sebastian Torres, the now-fatherless eldest son of the Torres family, didn't even spend more than one minute and eight seconds in the company of his just-widowed mother and just-orphaned younger brother. Of course, he's aware that Sebastian has been disowned by his own family – even if he's still using the same surname. It's just a little disconcerting to see that young man act so apathetic towards his own father's murder – it's difficult to find that kind of honesty amongst the powerful ones recently, since most of them are too concerned about looking good for the papers. Instead of keeping his fiancée company or mourning with his family, Sebastian spent the Economic Summit socializing with businessmen and economists alongside Vladimir Snow. He concludes the observation report for the unlikely duo with a note about how a full cooperation between the two is bound to raise trouble, if only for their terrifying individual potential to instigate chaos.  
  
Ten minutes and nine seconds – and counting – before his self-imposed finish line arrives.  
  
He speeds up his typing because working overtime for a flexi-time job isn't cool at all. Aside from the clock that's running on the lower-right corner of the video feed running on his computer screen, there are no other devices inside this house that can possibly tell him about the exact time. Despite the surprising lack of timekeeping devices though, his own internal clock already does a very thorough job of counting down the littlest trickling of seconds through the gates of time – so he's very aware about every moment that's lost to him. He sometimes wonders if he's the only being cursed with that kind of ability. He doesn't get to ponder about that often, because he accepts a truckload of jobs from many different employers on a daily basis. Information gathering – or stalking, as what most people would call it – is fairly easy as long as one has the correct mindset and the necessary equipment. The hard part is the comprehensive note-taking to ensure that everything is unbiased and is properly noted; it's not up to him to draw conclusions from the things he witnesses and records, after all.  
  
There's nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds before midnight and he can already feel his fingers shaking from the effort.  
  
One of his tasks today includes observing Paula Sterling – and she's almost unrecognizable to the person on the profile he managed to obtain. Amazingly, the profile is only four months old – it seems that her husband's death, no matter how much she didn't love him, has taken a great toll on her. He almost pities her – if he forgets that she's from a nauseatingly rich family that has superficial problems compared to common folk like him, that is. The past twelve weeks have obviously been harsh to her, with her situation most certainly exacerbated by the very problematic child she adopted. Most of the news reports are busy terrifying its viewers about the prospect of another Jack the Ripper spilling blood all over the streets of civilization; the tiny remainder focuses on the different financial reports and economic plans to improve world productivity. None of the reports have criticized Helena Troy's see-through gown that's so out-of-place on an Economic Summit where she isn't even invited to, nor have any reports mentioned anything about the ruckus Dianne Sterling kicked up when she crashed the lounge area of the UN Towers. Though there are dozens of unforgiving clips floating around the internet and some of them are about the very bold and shameless teenager that abandoned all reason and clung to the charming heir of the first-ranked Economic Pillar.  
  
Eight minutes plus fifty-one seconds before the activation of roadblocks across every intersection, equipped with sensitive motion sensors that can easily detect a hair's width of an intruder.  
  
People dislike change. They avoid it – which is why there has only been one change to the ranking of the Economic Pillars ever since its inception. Impressively, the Gates Family acts as though they've always been the top-ranked family, even if everybody knows that their position has only been granted to them within the past decade. Karl Gates, to be specific, has the air of a thoroughbred Prince Charming – no matter what the angle. There's something eerie about his presence though, something that can only be detected by someone hiding similar secrets. In his defense, his job requires an extra layer of secrecy, because if he can't even safeguard his own secrets, how can he expect his clients to trust him to handle their information. He isn't a trustworthy person – but he needs to make his potential customers think or even fantasize about that level of professionalism.  
  
The daily countdown reaches the seven minutes and twenty-two seconds mark with little fanfare as he makes sure that his reports are compiled successfully.  
  
He skims over the couple of notes he managed to take regarding Seth Fitzgerald, along with the Castle's heir that obediently trails after him like a lost puppy. No matter what the season or event is, someone inevitably requests for information and candid pictures for the odd couple – there's really something to be said about their magnetism. Or in the young Fitzgerald's case, it's more of because he's ingraining himself across too many things by taking in too many cases. He's able to solve them all – which is why people are already likening him to the second coming of The Great Detective – but that's only because he isn't alone while working. He doesn't have any solid proof – he doesn't need that anyway – but he's certain that Alexander Castle does everything in his power to help his friend out. He doesn't have proof, but that's the vibe he gets from observing the duo's interactions from beyond the security feed display. He doesn't wish to get involved with any of those two's antics though – the increasing amount of people who requests for every little bit of information about them is enough of a sign that they're up to no good, heirs from respected families or not.  
  
According to the real-time footage, the last staff member leaves the UN Towers with still six minutes and forty-six seconds left to spare.  
  
William Fitzgerald is also rather popular amongst politicians and mafia bosses, especially when it comes to keeping tabs on his appearances and his acquaintances. While the Fitzgerald's head of the family has long retired from his official service as one of the Pentagram Chiefs of the United Nations, there's no denying that he's still very influential and powerful amongst his peers. It's a rather unfair contest though – since he's the only member of the Pentagram Chiefs that also comes from an Economic Pillar. Wielding both enough financial and political power is bound to frighten a lot of his colleagues and irritate the rest of his enemies. There are already some nasty talks about how the culprit behind the Sterling Moonlight case is simply circling around and picking off lesser prey to continuously up the ante until the endgame of ending William Fitzgerald's life. Honestly, there are too many possibilities right now to successfully zero in on the culprit and his goals – and it doesn't help that flashiness of the crime scenes aside, there's nothing else that can serve as a solid clue.  
  
Glancing briefly at the timer shows that midnight is merely five minutes and thirty-two seconds away.  
  
Despite the relatively chaotic past couple of months though, there's no sign of stress whatsoever present on any of the UN representatives, be they the Pentagram Chiefs or any of their subordinates. It's either they're fairly relaxed and confident about handling the cascade of issues of differing severity, or they're just extremely good at hiding their anxiety. Twelve weeks to catch a phantom killer, made more challenging by the lack of clues, isn't a very good record for the United Nations, especially for both its Military and Police Force Division and its Area Management Division. Hector Dragon has released a press statement about how his division's role is to supervise local area management issues and because of this case's special attributes and international impact, he isn't the best person to handle such concerns – basically some hand-washing regarding the issue. Ekaterina Otto's division is focused on health, research and knowledge development, so it's strange for her to also hold a press conference about calming the masses – but it's probably just some show of a united front. The Military and Police Force Division governs the Ministry of Peace, so it's the division most involved and questioned during these types of disastrous problems, but Timothy Light hasn't committed any specific timeframes about solving the case – but he has skillfully dodged most of the criticism with his smooth words and silver tongue. It's almost a terrifying skill to possess, especially for someone in power. Timothy Light looks in control of the situation, even if, truthfully, the limited information is the direct opposite of having complete grasp of the situation.  
  
Partially covered by the time that proclaims that there's still four minutes and forty-nine seconds left, there's a huge flower arrangement atop a long, glass display table.  
  
The only daughter of the most beautiful woman in the world isn't one of his targets – Cassandra Troy is too plain and inactive compared to her mother – but he remembers her and her loud, tactless questions about whether the design committee used real flowers or fake ones to make the tasteful arrangement. He also remembers that there's never been an instance when Cassandra was approached by anyone aside from her mother's manager or her fiancée's blond secretary. Helena Troy's position was mostly near the entrance to the inner meeting hall where various officials paused to have the media take pictures with her beauty; Isaiah Goodwill was all over the place, chatting with many different crowds, as he's wont to do during any of the gatherings he has attended. Cassandra was mostly alone for the entire duration of the Economic Summit, simply looking around the decorations and commenting loudly and tactlessly at them. That habit of hers is consistent with her previous appearances at various other galas and meetings – which means that whoever is in charge of her social grooming isn't doing a very good job at making her fit in with her peers. Though she doesn't look the least troubled by her lack of company – or perhaps she's contented with simply having Isaiah Goodwill's younger secretary with her. Out of the two people granted the privilege of following Isaiah around, the cheerful young blond is definitely the more mysterious one. The first secretary, Evangeline Marlowe, is infamous amongst the mafia groups for being an overpriced underground doctor that has a zero failure rate. The young Christopher Goethe, on the other hand, is completely absent from any criminal activity logs – legal or illegal – and he has no outstanding contributions to society – whether good or bad. He's painfully normal – and so out of Isaiah Goodwill's league – which makes it all the more mystifying.  
  
Once he rotates the view of the security feed – with the three minutes and eleven seconds dropping down to ten-nine-eight… – he comes across one huge poster near the entrance pillars.  
  
The poster stands out against the cream color of the walls, not only because of its sharp hues and stark imagery, but also because of its subject matter. But then again, the design committee probably added that in due to some questionable decisions about making this Economic Summit more accessible to more people from a wider range of professions. Of course, all the guests that attended passed a certain quota of monetary worth, but the previous summits didn't really extend its invitations to influential people from the entertainment and creative arts industry. That readily accounts for the massive influx of supermodels, actors and artists during this year's summit, even if they mostly just stood around and looked pretty. The movie featured on the poster is a large-scale international project – and since it stars the world-famous Ice King, Claude Cross, it's the best choice for showing UN's support to the entertainment industry. He recalls a moment earlier today when the real-life Claude Cross briefly stood beside his picture – and the difference is enormous, to say the least. The apathetic expression of the real Claude Cross can pass for the complete opposite of the passionate picture of him mid-scream. The Ice King's transformation from his poker-faced countenance to any emotion required by the camera is truly amazing to behold – even if that just adds suspicion to Claude Cross' strictly private life. Not unlike the demand for Seth Fitzgerald and Alexander Castle, Claude Cross is near the top of the list when it comes to the most sought-after targets. He usually declines jobs related to the infamous celebrity though – since he isn't that keen on following actors around like some desperate paparazzi. He's only interested in working with targets that have mysterious connections to the underground businesses, after all.  
  
Every single heartbeat corresponds to one second and he doesn't even need to focus on maintaining the rhythm of his breathing to know that there's only two minutes and ten seconds left until midnight.  
  
Unbidden, a certain thought springs up. Out of the hundreds of people he noted down and observed – some out of his job and some just out of the burning need to make sure everything is recorded – he suddenly remembers a certain person. The main representative for the Minister of Health – the number one subordinate to Ekaterina Otto's division – the peculiar man that's completely wrapped in bandages except for his face. It suddenly strikes him as strange, because he doesn't remember noting down the person's appearance and actions, even though he can clearly remember cringing upon the sight of the eccentric mummy costume. He backtracks quickly on his reports but he knows he won't find any mention about that person's name, even if he can still recall seeing the bandaged man standing stiffly behind Ekaterina Otto during her interview and press conference. He quickly moves to remedy his oversight, writing down the name of Michelangelo Thompson Thomasburg beside the times that he appeared on the security feed. It's good that he managed to catch his mistake, even if it's not part of his actual job, but it's not good that he actually made that kind of mistake in the first place. He spends a brief moment to ponder about the possible reasons for this error – but before he can think too deeply about it, he—  
  
It's the final minute before the clock resets to zero to herald the start of the new day.  
  
The streetlights outside his apartment have all been switched off and the roads will not be seeing any sort of illumination until sunrise at around six in the morning – just in time for the curfew to be lifted for another day. Strangely enough, even with his train of thought momentarily disrupted, his brain is still welcoming images from his memory, tiny clips of moments when he witnessed the bandaged man move in and out of range of the security camera. The Economic Summit is packed, what with the number of regular guests and first-timers, but he only remembers the rather huge gap that automatically snaps into place as the bandaged person moves. Of course, it's expected of people to steer clear of weird-looking things, but there's still something strange here, especially since he can still remember how there's this one person – wearing a plain white polo and a black apron… a waiter maybe – who spoke with the bandaged man for five times, with each conversation lasting at least three minutes each – and those are just the moments captured by the particular camera that he bought. It could be as easy as the waiter wanting to build enough rapport for a hefty tip – but the bandaged man doesn't strike him as someone who will voluntarily tolerate that type of presence. He hums a little as he thinks whether this is worth pursuing or not, but the decision is quickly made as he glances at the nearly overflowing pile of reports that he needs to send out to his clients. Maybe some other time, he'll investigate other interesting people. Maybe—  
  
00:00:00 AM  
  
***  
  
Year 3672, June 11—  
  
"Damn, that was tiring as fuck."  
  
Finally the damn Economic Summit is over.  
  
He was almost afraid it would never end, what with the stockpiling of problems – one after another – and after much posturing and discussing about what to do with each respective problem, the sheer amount of people made it almost impossible to get out of the building. Whoever thought that it would be a fantastic idea to invite vapid, self-absorbed models who flaunted their sickening skinny asses and nauseating knee-deep cleavages – whoever that idiot is, deserves to be shot at least ten times to the balls.  
  
Complicated problems are tricky and annoying enough on their own, but concentrating on them is downright impossible with all the harping and giggling all over the place. At least someone had enough brain cells to separate the lounge for the models and actors and whoever the fuck else – if they were invited to the private Committee Floors, he would have done something very regrettable.  
  
"…Hmm."  
  
Very belatedly, the only other person occupying the room offers his very unsatisfactory response.  
  
There's a deliberate drawl there somewhere – as though he's being invited to snap.  
  
"You don't agree." He thinks of how he's the only one who had to go through the annoyance of smiling and waving to various people of varying degrees of repulsiveness. "Not very surprising – since you were just dicking around – as usual."  
  
"Hmm," there's another pause – drawn-out and infinitely aggravating – as though the other even needs to consider his words carefully, "I didn't find it tiring at all. There was no such 'dicking around' that happened, as you put it. I simply watched the proceedings and did absolutely nothing else."  
  
"Bullshit. And quit that," he brazenly sprawls out in the middle of a lavish bed that used to be a hallmark of something entirely different from opulence, his words filled with an amount of bite unexpected from the prince of the world's current number one family. "It's annoying hearing you say 'hmm' and 'hmm' like a fake gentleman."  
  
It's only a couple of minutes past midnight – not even close to his usual bedtime – but he already feels tired enough to sleep through three whole days. He tilts his head to the side and catches sight of crimson eyes glowing eerily from less than two feet away.  
  
"Aren't you confusing the two of us, human?"  
  
There's a heavy emphasis on the distinction between the two of them. The other almost sounds angry – but he can stew there in anger all he wants – and he doesn't give a fuck about that. Never has he felt – or maybe aside from that very first time – any sort of fear from dealing with the other, with or without the glowing red eyes. As expected of a windowless underground room, there isn't any source of lighting aside from the hazy glow of his phone from the bedside table, which only highlights the unnatural redness of those eyes. There are shadows everywhere and he focuses hard enough, he can almost see them writhing in place.  
  
But more important than possibly-alive shadows…—"Did you just call me a fake gentleman, you shitty demon?"  
  
"If you have to ask…" Said demon trails off suggestively, before crossing the distance and primly sitting down beside his sprawled form.  
  
With such close proximity, his nose can almost touch the other's left thigh and that's just disgusting. He maneuvers his body so that he's lying on his back instead, so that only the tips of his overgrown hair are the only things that can remotely touch the other's clothes.  
  
"Did you find a suitable one?" He finally asks when he bores of staring into the darkness, not bothering to stifle the yawn that leaves his lips. "There were a lot of idiots to choose from."  
  
"I did." It's not visible because of the poor lighting, but he's sure that the demon's sharp canines are showing now – the tone is heavy with a sort of hunger that speaks of painful starvation. "You even spoke with… her."  
  
"So it's back to females now?" He's not really interested either way – but it's been quite some time since he had to endure the extra presence of a girl. It never takes more than a couple of minutes, but even that is already too long for him. Not only does he get bored easily, but he also gets irritated at almost every little instance of idiocy and this world has a seemingly infinite supply of stupidity, to make things worse.  
  
"The other choices, I presume, are rather difficult to acquire." Even after all this time, he's only vaguely aware of what the demon's criteria area; it's not something that he bothers with, not only because it's not really his place to dictate what the demon should want. And he really isn't interested, really. "So she'll do fine."  
  
"What's the name?"  
  
"It should be…" There's a slight pause as the demon reaches inside his pocket to retrieve something. That 'something' turns out to be a personal phone – and it never does cease being amusing to watch a supernatural entity fiddle with simple human technology. "…Dianne Sterling."  
  
"…Sterling?"  
  
He doesn't really remember anyone with that surname aside from Paula and the now-dead Jonathan.  
  
"The one that made you want to gauge your own eyeballs," Heinrich helpfully joggles his memory, a tinge of amusement present on the demon's voice.  
  
"Ugh," he remembers now and he isn't grateful for that reminder at all. "Why that bitch? Actually, you know what, fuck this. I don't even want to know."  
  
"If you really don't want to know," the demon's voice is both disapproving and amused at his expense and that's just not fucking okay at all, "then you shouldn't ask, human."  
  
He rolls his eyes at the smartassery and he second-guesses his action for only a brief moment before he decides that he really wants to hit that know-it-all demon. Heinrich doesn't dodge his fist going for a wonderful uppercut, but the demon's automatic self-defense barrier manifests against his left knuckle. Heinrich informed him a very long time ago that creatures from other dimensions aren't able to utilize a huge chunk of their powers and abilities while in the neutral zone – but even the weak demon barrier is enough to inflict severe muscle pain to a human being like him.  
  
"And you should do something about your anger management," Heinrich's tone is all prim and proper once again, which is just fucking irritating. A demon playing around at being a wonderful gentleman is just insulting – true, it was comedy gold for the first few months, but now the novelty factor has long worn off and he's tired of being ridiculed by a goddamn demon – but Heinrich seems to have grown attached of his act. "It's not befitting of a splendid heir of the world's top-tier family."  
  
He snorts derisively, not just because that's his actual instinctive reaction, but also because he knows it drives Heinrich crazy, "…Because you know all about splendidness, fucker."  
  
"…Your… depravity… is hopeless."  
  
And there's really no word more perfect than 'depravity' to describe his reality.  
  
"…Ha-fucking-ha." He can't help the chuckles that escape from low in his chest – because this is almost enough to make him forget about the built-up fatigue from dealing with useless idiots everywhere – and he sits up because it isn't fucking fair that his demon is looking down at him, probably smirking like a satisfied cat. "…Isn't that why you're with me, though, Heinrich?"  
  
The shadows are definitely writhing and shaking from all four corners of this room hidden away from the rest of the stupid world – either in anticipation or in utter fear. It doesn't matter which. He feels, rather than sees, the increase in bloodlust that saturates the air.  
  
Heinrich declines to reply to his rhetorical question – but that's more than fine.  
  
He knows the answer – he has long known.  
  
"I'm counting on you to bring Dianne Sterling here."  
  
Of course the shitty demon is counting on him – for all his powers, the demon is hopeless when it comes to navigating and surviving on this magic-negating human world on his own. He has never passed up on the many opportunities of poking fun at his demon's utter inability to possess even the littlest sense of direction.  
  
It has always been up to him to lure countless brainless fools into the lair of the demon.  
  
…This case in particular though, leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He isn't looking forward to interacting further with the crazy bitch that has a penchant for gaudy, flash clothes. He also isn't looking forward into researching more into the brat's circumstances so that he can manipulate the situation skillfully without implicating himself for her upcoming demise.  
  
"Then you fucking better leave me alone while I brainstorm here," he narrows his eyes at his demon, deterring the other creature in advance. He doesn't really mean for his demon to totally leave his sight, but he isn't that keen on entertaining Heinrich once his inevitable boredom-mixed-with-hunger kicks in.  
  
Heinrich doesn't retort to his words – as expected – which is all well and good. Since this matter concerns his own food source, Heinrich even has the good sense to snap his fingers and command the writhing shadows to actually do something useful – the light switches all click to ON, driving the remaining shadows to the furthest corners of the room.  
  
He doesn't show any form of gratitude whatsoever for that very small favor. He straightens up so he can focus better on the strategy they'll use this time around. He fumbles for his data planner and pulls up an empty calendar for the next five days.  
  
The Economic Summit just ended – for most of the attendees that means a lot of time spent doing analyses on the information and reports brought up. A large chunk of the guests would also take some time off to do much-needed damage control for their own publicity. The Sterling Family isn't particularly noteworthy in his eyes, but they're still a part of the Pillars, which means they still have a lot of calculations and reports to do. But then again, the goddamn princess-wannabe didn't seem terribly bright – she's more like a fucked-up little sister that's caught up in her own thing. There's no chance that she's going to have any hands-on involvement with the post-Summit analyses – and that should give him a window of opportunity.  
  
He can't just go ahead and visit the Sterling's estate – he doesn't have any reason to. Plus, the media is particularly more motivated during these times – any types of actions, especially coming from someone of his station, is bound to be noticed. Everybody will see and notice and speculate about him visiting someone like that crazy bitch.  
  
What he needs to do… is to lure her into coming to his turf. Their usual modus operandi is to host a big-ass party and extend the invitations to anyone and everyone – but that won't work now. The Economic Summit just finished and people will be suspicious of another all-out blow-out so soon after a major event. A lot of investigators are also keeping an eye out for huge money changes, not only because of some concerns raised during the Summit, but also because the high-profile murders are apparently now being linked to someone targeting the riches of the richest people alive.  
  
So a party's out of the question…


	7. story the second: the masquerade of kaleidoscopes;

•••

  
**fractured fairy tale**   
**(—"once upon a time"—)**   
  
_story the second: the masquerade of kaleidoscopes;_

  
•••  
  
"…And, here, I think, I should stop, yes?" Without waiting for any sort of approval or disapproval, or any sort of reply really, the storyteller gratuitously bows down deep enough to almost snap his spine in half. "And, I'm, afraid that, well, this is the 'safe-for-all-ages' type of story. Heavily censored, I would say, yes?"  
  
Henry Pillsbury's job is to be as inconspicuous as possible in the normal world, while skillfully maintaining the correct sort of balance between his thankless job at being a chauffeur driver and his calling at becoming the best informant across all dimensions ever. He's infinitely grateful for the outpour of tragedies on the human world, because while more happenings mean less sleep, they also mean more jobs and more things to prove that he's the best ever.   
  
The past couple of weeks have been disastrously hectic, even if he has already been designated to focus on the Sterling Moonlight case's developments. While it's true that he could have simply stuck to stalking the detectives secretly assigned to work on the case privately, as a top-notch informant, it's his job to look at the big picture and connect all the dots.  
  
…Well, the Council members are definitely smart enough to grasp the truth on their own, but he'd like to think that he's adding value by doing extra work, unbidden. Evil scientists and corrupt businessmen love initiative, don't they?  
  
Said Council members are mostly silent, but that's only because the MUTE function on their microphones are switched on. Aside from the really popular and totally obvious ones, the Council members are disguised, for the most part. Instead of being honest like the foolhardy human beings he spied on, the underworld's high-ranking officials all have hologram screens masking their physical features and have metallic scramblers to hide their original voices. Instead of actual faces and names, there are numbers displayed on the hologram screens, numbers that serve as the official reminder of their own ranking system.  
  
It's mostly for security purposes, he knows.  
  
He isn't important enough, so his face is displayed rather blatantly and his name is unhidden from any database. There's a letter beside his rank number though, which is way better than what most inhabitants of this underground world can say for themselves. Even if it's a low letter that only proclaims him as a subordinate, it's still much better than what most people have to contend with.  
  
Rank 5 dismisses him rather rudely by disabling his transmission function. He stays put though, doesn't leave the meeting hall to nurse his injured pride, because he's still subject to cross-examination later.  
  
"Jonathan Sterling's death delivered a blow to the economy, but as expected of the dead-last amongst the Pillars, it didn't really amount to nothing, did it?" Rank 5 speaks lightly of the murder that sparked a lot of panic amongst businessmen – legal or otherwise. "The Sterling Family is sinking rather quickly, isn't it?"  
  
"LOSS of 49.98 million units on stocks," and there's nothing that the voice scrambler can do to hide the dripping antipathy on Rank 4's tone, "and Paula Sterling's sale of their assets only recovered 32.16 million units. It's a disgraceful LOSS."  
  
Despite the status disparity, Rank 12 disturbs the discussion tactlessly, while blatantly waving a bag of chips as he speaks, "Wellllll, as far as I know, we're not the United Nations, are weeeee? It's not our job to worry about the humans' economy and shiiiiiit, is iiiiit?"  
  
Both 5A and 4A stand up simultaneously and self-righteously, ready to defend their Masters' right to comment on the issues that plague the world directly above them, and probably to lambast the happy-go-lucky and devil-may-care attitude of the measly Rank 12 council member.   
  
Henry feels excitement coursing throughout his veins as he anticipates the inevitable confrontation between the two factions. This is what's lacking from the human world. There's no such thing as self-righteous malice there, or at least, none as strong as this.  
  
"—now, this should be the end of topic number one~♪"   
  
…Just like divine judgment that strikes down fiercely from the heavens, Rank 1 enters the conversation brimming with thinly-veiled aggression. Despite the singsong quality of the voice that doesn't futilely utilize a scrambler, the chirpy tone doesn't sound friendly at all. There's not a single person that has lived for a single moment in this very small world that isn't privy to the identity of this world's undisputed king. Henry would like to think that there isn't anyone in this room that's capable of mistaking that cheerful tone and upbeat personality with sanity and humanity.  
  
Without any room for disputes and protests, Isaiah Goodwill proceeds to speak as though he isn't intruding on an important topic that nevertheless affects their underground world. "We shouldn't ignore our brave and wonderful informant's achievements."  
  
Traitorously, a pleased grin breaks free on his face, because getting acknowledged by the Rank 1 is almost enough to make anyone fall into his knees and sob.  
  
"What's important is that we closely follow the developments of the Sterling Moonlight Case~♫"  
  
Rank 7's volume is toggled way up but it's still too faint. "…We absolutely can't let the human detectives and police forces reach the truth."  
  
"HA!" The spotlight shifts to a very familiar face. Just like him, there isn't any masking whatsoever on both the face and the name. This time though, the unassuming hairdresser now has a proper nametag. "As if those puny humans can even hope to catch me!"  
  
Without the colorful apron of the salon he's sidelining on, Nova Scotia looks like shadowy darkness personified. Henry supposes that it's part of his job as being one of the main assassins from the underworld, but it's still a little jarring to see such a person in this council.   
  
"I would like to disagree with your assessment of the human world, though, Nova Scotia~♪"   
  
It's sheer perfection.   
  
There's no other way to describe it that will give it justice. The way Isaiah Goodwill commands the attention of every single one of these greedy, psychopathic specimens of warped human beings is beyond perfection. The unflinching arc of a joyful smile – the unyielding wave of a pleased chuckle – everything is bathed in light but it only highlights the darkness even more.   
  
"The Great Detective is on an indefinite hiatus, it seems, but there is someone taking over him, right~♪" Isaiah Goodwill's facial expression doesn't have a shred of disapproval or reproach, but that's when one's judgment comes into play. There's no way that the Rank 1 is contented with the way things are tumbling down like broken building blocks. There's no way that the Rank 1 is happy with the way normal human beings are able to grasp the truth so easily. "Seth Fitzgerald and his loyal assistant, Alexander Castle, are surely on their way to becoming the next Great Detective~♪ How wonderful~♪"  
  
…Honestly, he doesn't see those two as becoming successful in uncovering the whole truth about the entirety of the Sterling Moonlight Case. They're both confined to the neutral zone, without any knowledge or any inkling of how there are other dimensions playing around with their own, clueless world. Without any idea about the existence of a world underneath the shadows beneath their lives' foundations, those two wouldn't be able to put forth any sort of hypothesis with the hope of discovering the real culprits and reasoning behind the assassinations.   
  
…But that's just his own opinion after observing the way the human world works.  
  
The Council members are all stilled into silence, no doubt awaiting the cue from the sovereign for them to start contributing to the discussion once again.  
  
"Welllll, we shouldn't be worrying about this, should weeeeee?" Rank 12, as expected, is the one who shatters the tense silence without any regard for respect or decorum. "Nova Scotia clearlllly isn't good enough if he's leaving clues for detectives to fiiiiiind, isn't heeee?"  
  
"…this isn't a matter of Nova Scotia's competency or lack thereof…" Rank 3 rarely speaks up, to the point that most of the common folk outright assume some sort of speech disorder to explain the silence. Said silence isn't the primary reason for the high levels of shock that Rank 3's speech creates though; it's more due to the booming loudness that's so inconsistent with the other's serene personality and statuesque looks. "…if we let ourselves be destructed with petty arguments, the only thing we can accomplish is to start an endless cycle of blame…"  
  
"Playing the blame game is inevitable, since we're dealing with imperfect things here, right?" Rank 5 boldly activates the MUTE function on Nova Scotia's speaker program, smiling with all of his razor-sharp teeth sparkling an unholy gleam, blatantly fishing for a violent reaction to his actions. "If we sent someone more qualified then we wouldn't be even discussing this, would we?"  
  
"So nooooow you're saying that we should we have sent The Dark Night?" It isn't anything groundbreaking, but it's still a testament to the advancement of technology that even Rank 12's hologram version has fairly realistic expressions and contortions. The holographic image now features a silhouette of a person with both hands placed on slim hips, almost like a scolding mother. "Isn't it a liiiiittle too late for regrets noooow?"  
  
"… The Dark Night would have been perfect for the job." Rank 7's soft-spoken contribution to the argument is barely-heard amidst the clash of wills. Henry is forever thankful that he wasn't there when these set of people debated over the person best-suited for the first set of assassinations this year. There have been countless rumors about a Battle Royale over the prestige of handling the hit on Jonathan Sterling. But of course those rumors remained unconfirmed even up until this moment.   
  
And just like how Isaiah Goodwill is indisputably the supreme ruler over this land, every single person inhabiting their world recognizes The Dark Night as the first-ranked assassin, with tales of strength and number of kills reaching legendary levels only eclipsed by the timelessly terrifying Jack the Ripper.  
  
"LOSS of control over Jonathan Sterling's activities started all of this." Hostility is still painted all over Rank 4's words. A quick survey around the hall confirms the rapid descent into chaos. It's only a couple of remarks away from an all-out brawl, judging from the dissatisfied growls and antagonistic snarls coming from left, right and center of the panel groups. "If only Jonathan Sterling was controlled and his escape prevented, we could have averted this crisis from happening entirely. It's our MISS."  
  
That statement simultaneously sparks even more righteous anger and sobers up most of the people participating in this uncomfortable discussion. Henry is an informant, but there are still several levels of information classes that are off-limits to him. He doesn't know anything beyond the rampant rumors about Jonathan Smith's crazy experiments done in the name of science nor does he know anything aside from the spectacular escape of the failed scientist from their realm.   
  
"Well, well, we shouldn't dwell on the past, or else we're never going to advance~♫" Isaiah Goodwill is smiling brighter than the force of all the artificial lighting inside this world combined. His two assistants are flanking him; instead of appearing like a cheesy group of superhero-wannabes, they manage to look imposing and intimidating. Isaiah Goodwill narrows his eyes at practically everyone and the LOCK function appears on top of every participant's hologram boards. "Now, we're going to talk about important matters, okay?"  
  
There's hardly a sound following that ultimatum.   
  
That isn't surprising, considering the way Rank 1 has deprived them of their rights to express themselves for the duration of the Council meeting.  
  
Isaiah Goodwill looks endlessly pleased with the vacuum silence.   
  
"Now, how about we just talk about the new projects for the next two months? Okay~♪"  
  
***  
  
"Enter~♪"  
  
The wooden door swings open with just a six seconds' worth of latency after the permission to enter has been granted so cheerfully. The room beyond, and even the door itself, feels imported from some theatrical set specializing on antique ensembles of rich cherry wood. The lamps on the far edges of the study bathe the surroundings with the shade of aged gold that feels elegant rather than cheap.   
  
Despite the terribly casual greeting entrusted to him before he even catches a glimpse of the other party, he doesn't forego the manners instilled to his very core. He bows down subserviently to the man in front of him, entrusting his complete attention and obedience to this realm's ruler for the next few seconds. When the other dismisses his action, he doesn't allow himself to relax completely, since he prefers to maintain a little bit of stiffness in his actions. His eyes immediately notice the lack of any sort of timekeeping devices inside the study – not that he's ever gone through a time of being dependent upon such man-made devices – because a mock-up of an antique study room feels bare without any type of grandfather clocks or something similar.  
  
"Good evening, Lord Goodwill." Before making his way here, he spent fifteen minutes of complete solitude in order to come up with that form of address. He's hoping that this job will go smoothly following that kind of greeting, but there have been reliable reports from informants of all kinds – all of them speak highly and secretively of the awe-inspiring man that has successfully occupied the throne of being the top-ranked official. "…I brought the… reports."  
  
Ever since March 17 – two days before Jonathan Sterling's assassinate date – he has worked on one main job. It's always been his responsibility to track the developments of what is now known as the Sterling Moonlight Case, as well as making sure to report any and all ripples of aftermath from the initial kill. It has been… trying, especially since keeping an eye on the Sterling family inevitably led him to close proximity with the unpleasantly insane child harboring delusions of grandeur. Thankfully, he wasn't actively scoping for information about Carlo Torres' assassination, since that hit was merely a smokescreen for the overeager police investigators, simply dangling the bait for a wonderful serial killer story to spice the lives of their followers.  
  
…He is a thorough man though – not to mention, cunning. His connection to this realm shall always be the top priority amongst his employer lists, but his loyalty isn't so pure and naïve as to include turning down other offers for the information reports he sells. Nevertheless he's submitting the first and most complete copy to Isaiah Goodwill, damning a number of characters to lives that just aren't their own anymore.  
  
"This one is for… the Economic Summit."   
  
He slides another set of heavy folders and a palm-size disk drive on top of the office table that smells of varnish.   
  
Isaiah Goodwill doesn't uncross his legs from the other side of the spacious table, nor does he make any motion to reach for the stack of files presented before him.  
  
"I'll review this first, Mr. Isaiah~☆!" An overly-enthusiastic kid appears by Isaiah Goodwill's side – sporting blond hair that blends wonderfully against the backdrop of carefully bound books and warm golden lamps. He isn't sure what surprises him more: the fact that the kid was able to get away with such an informal manner of speech – the fact that the mysterious Christopher Goethe he observed from the safety of security feeds is now in front of him – the fact that he wasn't able to see the kid prior to the moment he spoke up. "Please don't think badly of us, Mister… um, Fields? Mr. Fields, this is just part of our standard security procedure~☆!"  
  
"…Uh. That's fine." He eventually manages to respond, after taking thirty seconds to reformulate his thoughts, as his ears are taking quite a beating from Goethe's high-pitched voice. Despite possessing hair color that seems specifically dyed to suit the room and its décor, Goethe's attitude and mannerisms are completely off from what his master represents. It's almost interesting if it isn't so mortifying to witness.  
  
Aside from the initial welcome, Isaiah Goodwill remains quiet, silently observing the act happening in front of his eyes.  
  
He swallows and counts the seconds from the moment Goethe's hands touched the first stack of papers.  
  
"Okay, so if I got this right, it means that 'Cinderella' was last seen entering the Gates' mansion, on Karl Gates' invitation?" Goethe speed-reads through the reports like a particularly impatient schoolboy and he has to bite the inside of his cheek so he won't comment on that. Compiling the report took seven hours, thirty-one minutes and twenty-six seconds – and to see someone simply breeze through the pages born of his hard work is disheartening.  
  
"…Uh. That's right."  
  
"You're awesome~☆! And you even managed to locate someone that's 98% sure to be her! You really did everything~☆!"  
  
Christopher Goethe – even after doing three cycles of thorough case searches and background checks – seems like a completely harmless kid. Criminal activity logs don't possess his name or appearance – and he even cross-checked with the database of the United Nations. There's no reason for the brat to be here, dabbling in seriously hazardous jobs and serving for the most dangerous man alive, just like there's no reason for the kid to be sarcastic in his praise. "…Uh, right… Thanks."  
  
"If it's really Dianne Sterling – and since you were so awesome in information digging, I think you're right~☆ – then she was initially tagged by a local reporting facility for… hmm… disruption of harmony? And then, she was transferred over to the main branch of the United Nations Hospital of Human Behavior~☆"  
  
"…That's just their more 'humane' term for a 'holding facility for homeless, worthless, mindless people', Christopher~♪"  
  
"…IT IS?!"  
  
"…Uh. …Yes."   
  
Instinct makes him take two steps backwards – he would have taken more, but his pride in his work ethics stop his cowardly retreat before it can really take effect. He has always pegged the Goethe kid to be someone normal – perhaps a spunky teenager led astray by the promises of cool adventures – but seeing those eyes light up at being corrected by a very mocking voice, seeing that grin widen at being told that there is such a thing as a holding facility for unwanted civilians in a world that's supposedly all about neutrality and peace… It's disturbing to witness that kind of transformation right in front of his eyes. Not to mention, Isaiah Goodwill looks unmistakably amused by the results of his report – a reaction that crosses the level of awfulness. He isn't going to claim that he's a paragon of morality or good choices, but the two beings in front of him are definitely drowned in dark shadows.  
  
"Well, is there anything else you'd like to share~♪?"  
  
Once more, his instincts shout at him to keep his mouth shut. And he does follow that urge for exactly fifteen seconds. But he knows that whatever he's about to report is included in the report and has already been captured by the video footage of one of the surveillance cameras. There's no point in hiding it now and running the risk of getting exposed as an untrustworthy information dealer.  
  
"…She seems to have lost her memories. Uh, even before she was admitted." He can still remember the blankness of her face as she stumbled around, bare-footed, on the outskirts of the village that she used to claim as her kingdom. Truthfully, it appeared as though she lost everything and not just her memories – that's the only way to explain the empty look on her eyes – but that's just his opinion and not something that really needs to be reported.   
  
"…Uh, she also kept mumbling about, uh, a 'beautiful demon'…"  
  
"…A beautiful demon, you say~☆?"   
  
With the depths that research and technology have achieved in the past millennia, it's impossible to find anyone seriously considering the truth about supernatural forces, much less demons that aren't metaphors for human vices. Goethe's playful but disbelieving voice reflects the ridiculousness of Dianne Sterling's crazed mumblings. There's nobody in this world who would believe anything that isn't encased in rules of logic.  
  
There isn't anyone—  
  
And yet, despite logic dictating otherwise, Isaiah Goodwill smiles serenely – looking as though the answers to all the questions of the world has been handed over to him – appearing so blissfully content that it's almost disgustingly creepy.  
  
"Hey, Mr. Bobby Fields," and there's a weird slimy feeling that engulfs his entire body as soon as he hears Isaiah Goodwill's enunciation of his complete fake name, and it's almost like he can't breathe and it's already been ten-eleven-twelve seconds and he's suffocating from his own trappings, "please tell me more about that demon…?"  
  
***  
  
 **[end: cinderella]**


	8. story the fifth: the throne of scythes;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (skipping the 3rd and 4th tales, as well as the fantasy/reality of the 5th as they're 0% written)  
> (this part is at 50% .__.)

•••  
  


**fractured fairy tale**   
**(—"once upon a time"—)**   
  
_story the fifth: the throne of scythes;_

  
•••  
  
"…There is a particular reason why there are separate worlds, isn't there? Witches aren't supposed to lend their powers to human beings because they are from the normal world. Vampires aren't supposed to reveal their abilities and presence to human beings because they are from the normal world. Do you recognize the pattern there?"  
  
The scathing tone compounded with the disgusted sneer makes for a fairly frightening facial expression; while the Queen of Hearts isn't particularly famous for congenial smiles and gentle sighs, it's still a little disconcerting to witness such an ugly twist of emotions on the highest-ranked official in their particular world.   
  
More terrifying than the poisonous expression though, are the words that slither past the Queen of Hearts' lips.  
  
"I will be using the next five days to investigate, hunt and subsequently punish these irregulars that have been brought to my attention."  
  
Even though the measure of 'five days' has been proclaimed, there's no doubt to anyone who had already witnessed the cycle of this Queen of Hearts' justice system that it's nearly not enough time. Even though the word 'investigate' has been dropped, there's also complete certainty that the Queen of Hearts will not be sparing any extra effort into trying to find and understand the reasoning behind the irregulars' rule-breaking. And of course, even though it sounds like a devoted committee has compiled mountains of evidence and paperwork about the singled-out individuals, everyone present in this Court is aware that the Queen of Hearts doesn't care to listen to anyone's reports aside from one.  
  
"Your Majesty—" the representative for the Witches' side, the Witch of Silence, jolts out of her seat, fists banging quite loudly against the wooden table in front of her, "—I have an objection!"  
  
The violent and very obtrusive reaction easily masks the similar (but much more low-key) reaction from the representative of the Vampires' side.  
  
Nevertheless, the two objections instigate a cacophony of courtside mutterings bordering on disrespectful disagreements towards the Queen of Hearts' proclamation.   
  
"I did my part in gathering this Court, but rest assured that I never meant to get your agreements on this," the Queen of Hearts informs the assembly coldly, dismissively.  
  
Compared to the individuals that have been previously granted the title of 'Queen of Hearts', the current one is much younger and much more ruthless. The contrast is remarkable, to say the least, especially to the assembly members who have been part of the very beginnings of this world.  
  
Witches and Vampires are relatively new races; as it stands, their races' representatives are also fairly young. That could be the best reason behind the fact that now, both representatives are eagerly away from their own stations and have gallantly made their way near the front of the Court, to where the Queen of Hearts is located.  
  
There's a tell-tale hum of impending violence in the air, but it's a hum that immediately screeches into blinding, white noise before completely fading to disappearance.  
  
The Witch of Silence has her wand raised already, a particularly noxious spell glowing at the tip; the Vampire of Zargun already has his fangs lengthened and bared.  
  
The Queen of Hearts' hands are unmoving.  
  
"…An excellent and commendable job on disguising your killing intent," a calm, deep voice stirs the turmoil in the courtroom even more. The current speaker has a sword on his right hand and a gun on his left; the sword's edge is a breath's distance away from the Witch of Silence's carotid; the gun barrel is cocked directly against the Vampire of Zargun's stilled heart.  
  
Maintaining the eerily calm tone that doesn't quite hide the displeasure and emotions of its beholder, the speaker continues: "…But I'm afraid that I can't tolerate anyone wishing harm upon the Queen of Hearts."  
  
"…Jack." The Witch of Silence hisses in part-aggravation and part-warning.  
  
Testily, "…It's the Jack of Hearts, witch."  
  
"…Jack." The Queen of Hearts, this time, and there's an almost odd note of heavy-lidded amusement there. Almost. The Jack of Hearts doesn't offer another word, certainly not to correct the address of his title. Instead, the Jack of Hearts sheathes his sword in one smooth motion, sliding the metal blade away from the bright eyes of the Court's participants while simultaneously tucking the silver gun inside the hidden folds of his suit. The Jack of Hearts takes one slight step backwards, inching closer to the Queen of Hearts.  
  
The Queen of Hearts coughs a little, which does nothing to dispel the sickening tension inside the courtroom. "As I was saying before I got so rudely interrupted, I'll be hunting down those two irregulars. Mira River-Cloud, also known as the Witch of Miracles, will be punished for the irresponsible use of her powers on the normal world's realm and her blatant disregard of the rules that our realm abides to. George Humphrey, also known as… What is that vampire's title again?"  
  
"George Humphrey hasn't been bestowed a title yet, Your Majesty."  
  
"Well, how good of him to get himself picked off before he could waste a title!" The Queen of Hearts doesn't look particularly cheerful after declaring that fact, despite the excited inflection upon the words. "So the untitled newborn vampire will be punished due to his rampant stupidity and failure to read the rulebook before partying hard at the normal realm. Any objections? None? Perfect. That concludes this Court of High Order—"  
  
"Your Majesty!"  
  
The Queen of Hearts' eyes narrow in warning at the two representatives who seem to have forgotten how easily they were subdued earlier.  
  
"I'll be going 'Off with their heads!', so if you two like your heads on top of your necks, I'll suggest you shut up."  
  
"As the Cyclops' representative for today's Court of High Order, I give my approval for the Queen of Hearts' proposition." Cyclops III cuts into the conversation before everything cycles and revolves into becoming a rollercoaster ride of unpleasantness. Even with the Cyclops' eyes sliced with cross-shaped scars—even with a thick black blindfold—Cyclops III manages to appear confident and not-disoriented, despite the noises and the commotion, to the point that he even angles his body properly so that he could face the Queen of Hearts' direction. "It doesn't help us and our jobs if we procrastinate about this."  
  
"Ever so efficient, aren't you," the Witch of Silence levels the defender of justice and efficiency with a dangerous glare, fully aware that the blind being can't be intimidated by visual cues, "just because this doesn't concern your race directly."  
  
"…If that’s the case, let me place my vote on the 'disagree' portion of the poll." The Vampire of Zargun breathes out with a broken sigh, sounding nevertheless thankful for the chance to have his opinion voiced out.   
  
A subtle, almost unnoticeable tremor runs through the Queen of Hearts' frame. With a dangerously low and controlled voice, the Queen of Hearts acerbically retorts, "…I will definitely be mandating prerequisite ear and hearing check-ups for all participants of this court. How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not asking for your agreements—your opinions—your feelings regarding this matter? I will be personally leading the punishment cycle for these two individuals. This isn't up for discussion or objection. I don't wish to repeat myself again. I'll be going off with their heads and any interference with the punishment will be considered as treason not only against this court, not only against the Kingdom of Hearts, but also against the entire realm."  
  
The Queen of Hearts' lips thin imperceptibly. Invisible and unapparent to the participants of the court earlier—but now not anymore: tendrils of goo-like black shadows trail-slither-rattle around the Queen of Hearts' frame, faint whispers of agony and despair echoing with the tiniest, softest tones. As though it has a will of its own, the Queen of Hearts' shadow crawls and spreads itself across the tiles, the carpet, the building's foundations; against the bright lighting overhead, the shadows climb the walls and suffocates the surrounding air, manifesting into a physical presence, shaping into a familiar Death Scythe.   
  
Testament to the realm's ruler's aggravated state, the shadows seethe and hiss, curdling with untamed anger, boiling with unchained aggression. Contrary to all the previous owners of the title 'Queen of Hearts', the current one doesn't possess any scruples about evoking fear and provoking terror in the hearts of everyone in the vicinity.   
  
"Everyone who lives in this realm is required to abide by the orders and rules of the Queen of Hearts." Instead of sounding clinical and detached, the Jack of Hearts' tone is filled to the brim with an odd sort of fascinated devotion, almost as if even he himself is surprised with his own feelings of admiration that are spilling and leaking out everywhere. Effectively summarizing the harsh words uttered less than minutes ago by the Queen of Hearts—the Jack of Hearts manages to remind the representatives of the different races that inhabit this realm about the unbreakable rule and promise every single entity present here had sworn to unconditionally follow. "…Everyone."  
  
There's the tiniest bit of progress when it comes to diminishing the smothering atmosphere, especially since the death scythe's image collapses back into its own shadows, indicating that the Queen of Hearts' wrath, while permanent, will just simmer underneath the surface instead of exploding and taking everyone down to hell with it.   
  
Without another word, the Queen of Hearts retreat to the nearest exit, conveniently located less than five meters away.  
  
The Jack of Hearts bows down respectfully, as though to apologize for the Queen's wordless retreat, because the Jack of Hearts will never apologize for the Queen of Hearts' personality or style of ruling over this realm's occupants.  
  
"This is the end of this Court of High Order. Thank you for your attendance."  
  
***  
  
"Isn't this lovely?" Sarcasm liberally drips all over the place, as the Queen of Hearts pays the toll needed to allow round-trip travel between this realm and the realm of humans. "But rules are rules, aren't they?"  
  
Chrome Lake-Mist, the Witch of Equivalence, processes the transaction with a straight face, effectively masking her feelings regarding the Queen's blatant provocation. "Should I process the payment for the Jack of Hearts as well?"  
  
"I don't think I'll need your protection when I'm just hunting down two low-level nuisances."  
  
"Your Majesty, I can't allow any sort of harm or inconvenience to come your way."   
  
Rules are rules in their realm. Every single one of them is governed by rules set by the Queen of Hearts in order for them to continue existing. Nowhere in the rules—laid upon like ancient runes underneath the Jack of Hearts' skin—does it state that he should be wholeheartedly devoted to the Queen of Hearts. There's a different bond between the two of them, arguably stronger than the rules that keep their realm together.  
  
"…Can't allow, huh?" The Queen of Hearts murmurs the words almost with a sort of detached wonder.  
  
"I can't, Your Majesty." Rarely does the Jack of Hearts display any instance of stubborn willpower, but when he does, he doesn't leave room for failure. "I'll be going with you in this mission. I'll take care of the arrangements for the security in the castle while we're away. I'll—"  
  
"Still so easily flustered," detached wonder is still there, but now there's a hint of amusement added, "You really never change, Jack."  
  
The Witch of Equivalence isn't the type to visibly perk up whenever there's a tidbit of interesting information that arrives her way, since her job practically invites secrets and sins to be spilled and hidden and exchanged. She does listen more intently, though she takes great care in remaining wordless and unobtrusive so that the duo will just carry on with their conversation as though there isn't a third party in the room.  
  
The Jack of Hearts ascended to his post months after the Queen of Hearts underwent the miraculous ascension that's bound to become legendary for the future generations. There are equal amounts of controversy and all-around strangeness regarding the duo's past. As a Witch—and more importantly, as the current Exchanger—she supposes that it's part of her job to keep her eyes and ears peeled open for any sort of information she could gather about the two entities that have risen on top of their realm.   
  
Contrary to his usual calm and collected demeanor, the Jack of Hearts visibly relaxes and sighs in relief, the anxiety and nervousness seeping out from his previous tense posture and forlorn expression. "Your Majesty, I—"  
  
"I really don't think I'll need you to protect me when we're down there," the Queen of Hearts must really enjoy driving the hurt and uncertainty deep into the heart of the one and only member of the Royal Guard, "but you do have other uses, don't you? I'll allow you to tag along with me."   
  
As always, remains unsaid.  
  
"Thank you very much," the Jack of Hearts fervently announces his gratefulness to the one who doesn't deserve it in the slightest, "I'll make sure not to fail you."  
  
Silence reigns for an entire minute as the Queen of Hearts declines to acknowledge the impassioned declaration.  
  
"You'll need to get a babysitter for the brat before we leave."  
  
There's a touch of confusion upon the Jack of Hearts' face, eyebrows furrowed and his single visible eye narrows in thought. Said confusion quickly disappears like a tiny droplet swallowed by an ocean of dark nothingness. "Oh. I'll make an arrangement for the King of Hearts to be taken care of. I heard he has become rather fond of the King and Queen of Clubs. Should I extend an invitation to them while we're away?"  
  
A wrinkle of nose is his immediate reply, but the Queen of Hearts makes a hand gesture that guarantees indifference and apathy, but more importantly: consent.  
  
"I'll inform the Ace of Hearts about these changes too, so she'll be prepared to be the temporary officer-in-charge. She's proved herself to be sufficiently skilled when it comes to being the King of Hearts' bodyguard. I'll contact the King of Spades about increasing surveillance and security too, just in case."  
  
"Just make sure that they'll actually remember to not make a mess of the throne room and to never set foot in my quarters." The Queen of Hearts pauses for a sluggish heartbeat. "Actually, I don't want them setting foot in the entire wing of my quarters."  
  
"I'll make sure to reiterate those points." The Jack of Hearts bows deeply, almost like those human butlers that trail after their human masters like measly dogs dragged around by the collar, almost bending his entire back with the motion, before giving the long-ignored Witch of Equivalence an acknowledging nod. He then turns on his heel and makes his way to the abandoned corner of the room, where he could make the arrangements to accommodate their upcoming disappearance for the next five days.  
  
The Witch of Equivalence doesn't bother straining her ears to hear every single word that tumbles out of the Jack of Hearts' mouth into the receiving end of his communicator. She isn't keen on gathering information that is strictly business and straightforward enough.  
  
"How many more minutes until the portal to the other realm activates?"  
  
"It shouldn't take too long," the Witch of Equivalence says softly, her heart now focused on praying for a quick and painless death for her comrade that's about to be hunted down, "…just around two minutes."  
  
A noncommittal grunt escapes from the other's lips. The shadows accompanying the Queen of Hearts stretch and curl like cloying smoke, turning and twisting the air around them to a dark spiral.   
  
"Enjoy your trip." The Witch of Equivalence doesn't really want them to enjoy this particular trip, but it's all part of manners and social graces ingrained deep into her system.  
  
The Queen of Hearts doesn't react to her words of farewell, while the Jack of Hearts simply shuts off his communicator and gives her another nod of acknowledgement.   
  
With the ease of someone who's experienced this process a hundred times before, the top two officers of the Kingdom of Hearts step into the portal that serves as the gateway into other realms. The Witch of Equivalence watches them go with very little emotion, her mind traitorously whispering her fondest wish to never see those two men ever again.  
  
***  
  
"The air here is as stuffy as always!"  
  
"I prepared a mask, Your Ma—"   
  
The Jack of Hearts' sentence is sliced by a gloved hand forcibly placed against his mouth, cutting off the usual respectful address. While this is hardly the first time the two of them have ventured to this realm, it seems that the Jack of Hearts seems keen to forget common sensibilities about their situation. All three realms have agreed about only one thing since the start of their existence; they have sworn to keep the realm of humans—Earth—in the dark about the existence of other realms and of other beings that possess power they could only speculate and salivate about.  
  
"You should know better by now to call me that here."  
  
"My apologies… what code name will you use?"  
  
"It doesn't matter. Just call me whatever you can think of… Jack."  
  
Jack breathes in deeply, Earth's polluted and corrupted air sinking and re-circulating inside his body. It's imperative that he remains controlled and calm at all times, so he's beating himself up for almost slipping so many times in the past few minutes. "I'll address you as Nova for the duration of our… visit then."  
  
"Whatever," the newly-christened Nova dismissively shrugs off Jack's devoted-as-ever words, despite the lack of a formal title attached somewhere. "We'll be setting up our base of operations. Somewhere very far away from any United Nations office is preferable."  
  
"If that's the criteria, then I'm afraid that we can't use that place."  
  
Nova stares at Jack critically, reading the other's expression. "…I wasn't expecting you to offer that anyway."  
  
"Since this incident is closely tied to them and it is quite near, how about we just occupy the Valley estate?"   
  
The Valley estate is where the so-called Sleeping Beauty has resided during her very long, artificial slumber—mostly due to a newborn vampire's actions; not to mention that the mistress of the Valley family is a close friend of the Witch of Miracles—a queer closeness that's deep enough to inspire the witch to grant one of her limited, sought-after miracles to a pathetic, powerless human.  
  
"…Lead the way then."  
  
***  
  
Descending to the realm of humans doesn't come with any obvious physical alterations to their forms; nevertheless they must take action into foregoing their formal clothes that carry enough rank and flamboyance to attract the eyes of not only their targets, but also of normal humans. While there are changes burned into the depths of their bloodstream and consciousness, those are easily masked by their skin and outer appearances.  
  
Jack of Hearts—no, he's just Jack now, takes great care to rub the ends of his newly-dyed wig in an effort to hide the fact that hair dye was involved just minutes ago to achieve the russet color of the strands. It wouldn't do for him to walk around town with dripping hair that will lure not only gossiping housewives, but also low-level policemen right into their makeshift base of operations.   
  
As expected of an estate haphazardly, thoughtlessly, furnished in order to house a comatose person, there's barely anything of any use inside any of the closets and cupboards. As expected of a well-known family with substantial connections, there's hardly a sign of any interference from the local police or the United Nations Army even if a double-homicide did occur in this very location not more than a month prior. As expected of human beings—everything reeks of petty and pathetic emotions.  
  
"I'll go ahead and acquire some weapons," Jack takes in the disheveled sight of the Queen of—Nova—he's Nova now—and adds, "and some toiletries and food."  
  
The Queen of Hearts—without all of the crimson cloaks and scarlet sleeves, without all of the hungry-looking hearts imprinted at every single space of clothing, without all of the satin-seeming blood branded at every inch of bared skin—is now Nova in this realm, with the only red splash of color remaining on burning eyes.  
  
The Queen of Hearts—now without the shadows enslaved by the one who ascends to the title of 'Queen of Hearts' and ruler of the 'Kingdom of Hearts', now without the fantasy runes granting exception to the rules of logic, now without the trademark Death Scythe that has long served as a symbol of unyielding terror—is now brought down to the human realm as Nova, brought back to the human realm that the Queen of Hearts has inhabited and terrorized an entire lifetime ago.  
  
The Queen of Hearts—with a simple black shirt and simple blue jeans, with long wavy hair and long curly eyelashes—now looks a human—now looks a man.  
  
Nova clicks his tongue disapprovingly, uncombed hair falling like shards of unpolished black diamond, expression bland and faintly murderous. "Much better than earlier, but you still need to fix your tone."  
  
"I'm so—" Jack cuts himself off, because apologizing for every little fault of his is only going to make Nova mad while they're here. The Queen of Hearts easily accepts his heavy-handed apologies, but it's not the Queen of Hearts who's in front of him, because they're playing a charade for anyone who's possibly tracking them. If either the rogue vampire or the runaway witch gets alerted to their presence, it will make tracking them down and punishing them a difficult affair. He understands that, comprehends the cause-and-effect and rules of circumstances, but he finds it more than challenging to make the necessary adjustments to his attitude and behavior, especially regarding his Queen of—Nova. He makes a final attempt to compose something casual and nonchalant even if he desperately wants to bow down or kneel, or at the very least make sure that the things he's planning to do match the ones in his master's mind. "…I'll be back by dinnertime."  
  
Nova lets him go without a word or acknowledgement and somehow the heartbreakingly familiar apathy hurts a little more in this realm.  
  
Jack ventures out of one of the many estates belonging to the Valley family, carefully maneuvering under the cover of the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings and under the shade provided by the giant trees nearby.   
  
In sharp contrast against the abandoned vacation estate, the marketplace immediately beyond the borders of the vacation estate is teeming with humans: merchants with goods sparkling unnecessarily bright below the bright sunlight, civilians with wallets overflowing with the most recent wages, children with hands and mouths sticky with food and innocence.   
  
Jack breathes in deeply the smell of humankind and forces himself to relax; he can't be spotted walking around with rigid shoulders and tensed arms, he'll immediately attract suspicion that way. Jack squashes down the insistent urge to pat his cheeks with grimy fingers and to adjust the wig perched atop his head. Looking like a lost, insecure traveller is a no-no too—he'll instantly be the target of merchants who will mark their prices up as a courtesy to an unsuspecting man, just as he'll appeal to rowdy, prankster kids and maybe to some unfortunate lowlife snatchers. He needs to strike the correct balance between normalcy and standoffishness—something that he hasn't learned sufficiently during his life as a human being years ago.  
  
It's been a long time since he last set foot in this region and it certainly hasn't been to mingle around with the middle-class. Yet his paranoia isn't letting him pass through the busy roads and noisy streets without the worry that someone, anyone, will recognize him despite his best efforts at disguising himself. It's outright impossible, he knows, especially since he took great care in choosing the color for the contacts lodged securely on top of his eye. His hair color is different too and he isn't wearing anything that he would have worn previously.  
  
There's no way anybody in this world will be able to link him to his past self.  
  
…And that's how it should always be.  
  
***  
  
A tiny part of him cringes and wriggles at the sight displayed systematically in front of his gaze, despite the amount of weeks that bled to months that transformed to years that have passed. It is a source of infinite wonder for him—the way someone can get used to all of these and not even flinch the littlest bit. He is, in no way, hoping for this job to be wrangled out of his hands; he silences the pitter-patter of tremors on his hands hidden skillfully by his gloves; he suppresses the uncontrolled chaos of his heartbeat with barely so much as a sigh.  
  
"W-Wha-What are you doing—"  
  
It is an irrelevant question and he tersely cuts the words into tiny incomprehensible pieces by bringing down a metal hammer with striking force. His prisoner attempts subterfuge by forcibly leaning his entire body to the left, most likely guessing at his intent to kill; the maneuver is completely useless, because he's expecting that kind of desperate action, because he isn't seeking for this one's death, at least not yet. He aims for the prisoner's right elbow and he lands the solid strike, hitting a pulse point and a pain receptor center too small for his hit to be considered as any type of coincidence. His prisoner howls in complete agony and he doesn't close his one good eye at the assault on his hearing. Screams are terribly undignified but he's been—well, he isn't a stranger to this sort of situation, reversed and flipped-over, so he somehow understands the kind of thoughtlessness that accompanies the act of simply shouting disjoined syllables and meaningless profanities.  
  
Torture is definitely an ugly world, something that doesn't have a place on the pristine walls and high ceilings of the Kingdom of Hearts. It is a good thing then that he isn't there—even if he will always consider himself to be the Jack of Hearts—because there's more leeway when it comes to extracting information and getting what he wants like this.   
  
Though honestly, there hasn't been a pressing need to raid the headquarters of a weapons dealer that he briefly dallied with a long time ago. His chores for the day are most definitely finished: expensive takeout from three different restaurants since he doesn't want to make any assumptions about the Queen of Hearts' appetite and preference today; two grocery bags filled with an assortment of toiletries that can jumpstart a beauty salon venture, interspersed with innocuous devices that can be wielded to become effective disguises; a neon green suitcase that's only bright and cheerful as long as one didn't push past the first zipper and look at the unassembled firearms.  
  
It isn't because he doesn't want to return to their makeshift base yet—if anything, he wants to be beside the Queen of Hearts at all possible times, an unhealthy attachment that he finds great amount of pride in, no matter how much gossip and scandal and distrust it generates.   
  
This is because he only wants the very best for the Queen of Hearts. And if it includes raiding the most well-known mercenary group for their collection of prized weapons that can be considered a little mix of antique and modernity—then so be it. He has failed to do this during the previous times that the two of them have descended to this world for the sole purpose of hunting down irregulars and law-breakers, but he isn't going to uphold that failure. He is going to succeed in retrieving a scythe that's just a little too flashy for silent assassinations and a little too meaningful just to be left alone in the hands of these thugs powered only by a sharpened sense of greed.  
  
Never in his life has there ever been a moment, no matter how brief, where he felt even a flicker of doubt towards the Queen of Hearts. Retrieving a piece of weapon doesn't mean that he is somehow less certain of the other's prowess when it comes to dealing death to others like it's the only interesting thing to be done in this world. He doesn't even consider the power of symbolism once the Queen of Hearts wields that scythe as the targets fall down like a crumbling house of cards.  
  
"Torturing you," he replies, belatedly and offhandedly, once the screams die out and are replaced by periodic gasping. Torture remains to be an ugly word, but it's the only thing that can encompass this scenario: bodies of fallen mercenaries forming a blood-red carpet all over the filthy floors, machine guns and broadswords stoically overseeing the carnage without having the slightest chance of being dragged from their walled displays and being utilized for what they are, the only living executive blazing through a countdown of his life while redundantly adding to the stark crimson paint on the floor, on the wall, on the ceiling.  
  
"Who do you work for," and it's a wonder how the executive could even enunciate complete words, much less an actual sentence—just as it is a source of marvel that he doesn't recognize futility when it's staring at his face, "I'll pay. I have money. I'll pay you three times—no, five times more, so please!"  
  
Illegal and immoral dealings have always yielded more money, so he's more than acutely aware of this particular group's monetary value. That kind of success in villainy is the reason why he even sought this place out in the first place. But this executive who is now nowhere superior to his comrades-cum-pawns-cum-fellow evildoers is operating under a very flawed sense of logic. Even during his long-gone past, he's never been the type to be seduced by the whisper of fluttering bills or the twinkle of overflowing coins. That insensitivity to money has only increased, if that's even possible, recently.   
  
"I doubt you can compensate me the way my employer does," and it brings him a little sort of thrill when referring to the Queen of Hearts as his employer. They aren't. They don't have a professional employee-employer relationship. They're not even properly a Queen and her Knight—because the Queen is a he and the Knight position officially belongs to the Ace of Hearts. They're barely acquaintances. But he has long sworn to commit his everything to the Queen of Hearts' whims and orders—and that's the only thing that matters to him, not money, not power, not even life.  
  
There's no monetary compensation for all the sacrifices he has volunteered to make. There won't be anything like that in the future. There's no way he could be swayed to stop on this blaze of torture.  
  
There's no way that this flawed being sprawled in front of him can offer the only one thing that the Queen of Hearts generously grants him.  
  
"Ten times, then!" Bargaining despite the constant ringing of the endgame buzzer is surely one of the hallmarks of being a natural resident of the human realm. There are no marks or runes or even unifying characteristics that presents the human race as one cohesive unit, very much unlike the systematic similarities present between each single race of the ones dwelling in the realm above. It's only this then, the foolhardy stubbornness that clings to their pathetic, short life. No other race, no other creature, possesses this amount of stupidity.  
  
"You don't even have to waste money on me," he offers the ray of hope sadistically, because his casual statement is equally soaked with truth and lies, "all I want is just one thing."  
  
He carefully doesn't place any emphasis on his words because even with his success guaranteed at this moment, it certainly doesn't hurt to be take precaution. He can't allow this lowlife to gain even a modicum of advantage over him.   
  
He just wants one thing.  
  
"I can't give you that!" Hysterical and unwise, the man that's hailed as the executive of this particular headquarters wails like a wild pig about to be guillotined. "Please, anything but that!"  
  
"Why can't you give it to me?" Tilting his head, he peers at the swollen flesh on the elbow, calculates the amount of damage he'll need to dish out before he can get the exact location of the weapon that he wants to present as a gift to the Queen of Hearts. Even if it isn't really a gift—no, it really is inappropriate to call that scythe a gift. "It's not like anybody's using it, hmm?"  
  
"But it belongs to Jack the Ripper!"  
  
He smiles.  
  
He can't help it—even if he has spent a huge amount of his time in training to automatically prevent any sort of emotion to physically surface—he can't help but smile at the mention of the world's most prolific, most evil and most feared serial killer.  
  
"Of course I am aware of that." Nobody is spared of the knowledge about the original Jack the Ripper – not in this realm, not in the realm below, and most certainly not in the realm above. "That's the reason why I want it."  
  
"You're insane!"  
  
Yes, yes he is.  
  
The legendary death scythe owned by the legendary Jack the Ripper captured by the legendary Detective and sealed into the legendary Sky Prison.  
  
The sheer amount of effort and perseverance invested into finding that legendary weapon is something detailed and engraved into every historical accounts and every horror story imaginable. The seemingly endless amount of money and manpower used and wasted into separating that legendary weapon from the legendary criminal's hands is something that no one person can easily forget. The amount of blood spilled by that weapon, with or without any evil intentions, is enough to sober any megalomaniac that has delusions of grandeur.   
  
"Yes," he agrees outwardly, his one eye pinpointing the small, microscopic area exposed by the miniscule rip on the once-pressed slacks; the metal hammer is heavy on his palms and ready to strike that one pulse point that will render his prisoner's legs useless for the entirety of his very short remaining lifespan, "…I suppose I am."  
  
***  
  
Dinnertime is a vague phrase because each person has his own ideals, schedules, preferences when it comes to his everyday life and that includes the act of eating the last meal of the day. Nevertheless, he rushes back to the mostly abandoned estate, wearing clothes that are certainly different from the ones he wore earlier today. The pale foundation lathered upon his face itches greatly and the long locks of artificial hair attached to his scalp itches even more.   
  
"I'm back," he utters breathlessly, reverently, the moment he unlocks the door, taking great care not to utter any sort of honorifics or titles after his words.  
  
The Queen—Nova deigns to look up at him from the collection of papers sprawled across a wooden dining table. It's just a simple action that means nothing really, but still, the fact that Nova pauses on his own to look at him, no matter how briefly, is enough to summon a smile to his face.  
  
"You are."  
  
Thrilled with the recognition, he proudly displays the fruits of his labor for today: three bags of dinner takeout, two grocery bags, one neon green suitcase, and—well. Nova's eyes are on the ought-to-be-familiar black weight on his hands, easily recognizable despite the black cloth he used to mask the telltale shape of a reaper's weapon.   
  
"You," and there's a certain quality of huskiness in that just one syllable that makes his knees wobble unsteadily. "It must have been quite difficult to obtain that, I trust?"  
  
"I got it for you," he confesses easily, no remorse, no shame, just plain admission, "There's no such thing as difficulty when it comes to doing things for you."  
  
"Hmph," Nova actually chuckles – and it's a testament how much this mission is important to him, because the Queen of Hearts isn't as friendly, as welcoming, as this. "What charming words… but so very out of place in this scenario. Try harder, won't you, Jack?"


End file.
